


Anthem

by General_Lee



Series: Who We Are Now [8]
Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout 4, Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Action/Adventure, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Drug Abuse, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative, Past Relationship(s), Post-Break Up, Post-Canon, Rescue Missions, Road Trip, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-01
Updated: 2020-04-14
Packaged: 2020-06-02 10:20:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 51,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19439467
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/General_Lee/pseuds/General_Lee
Summary: Season 6: A Sheep’s Clothing / Tactics adaptationWhen things go south in the Commonwealth, John and Danse end up somewhere entirely different. New friends, new enemies, and old factions await.





	1. The Ring

**Author's Note:**

> Theme for season 6: [''Take On Me'' by Hidden Citizens](https://youtu.be/YCYHliCq3Zc/)

DANSE

Sanctuary Hills, MA

October 13th, 2288

Thirty-four percent.

The M7-97 file, pulled from the Institute under heat of battle, contained only thirty-four percent of its original data.

The desk chair in John’s old house squeaked as Danse leaned against the backrest and rubbed his eyes. Long hours of straining to make sense of broken sentences and digital gibberish took their toll on his eyesight. And his patience. _Leave it alone_ , John had warned, knowing a thing or two about stewing over the past. Sound advice, but John was human and needed no explanation as to how and why he’d been created.

Thirty-four percent wasn’t enough. But it had to be.

Here in the quiet solace of the house where John kept his papers and texts, Danse could reflect on his construction, green words on the terminal’s screen deepening a morose detachment between M7-97 and Danse himself. From what he’d been able to discern, M7 models were made-to-order infiltrators, built from scratch to fulfill specific roles on the surface. Some were fully conscious of their identity while others, like Danse, remained ignorant of their purpose.

Though the file, Danse had been able to ascertain that his assembly had been completed four days before the assault on Adams Air Force Base. He’d been beamed directly into the battle, cashing in on pure pandemonium. But seven-eight minutes into his deployment to the surface, he’d been struck, giving him his first concussion along with the scar over his eye and disabling Institute tracking. He’d been on his own since that moment, another soldier, another survivor.

With the Institute hypothesizing that he’d be on long deployments without the ability to report in, protocol had been to retrieve his oblivious unit after its demise and load the entirety of Brotherhood failsafes learned during his subversion. His creators had counted on his death. Had Maxson succeeded in executing him, the elder would have played directly into the Institute’s plan. Danse’s own sense of self-preservation had saved him, and the Brotherhood of Steel as well. Had he known what he was from the beginning, perhaps he would have gone directly to his Institute superiors after the discovery of his background. Perhaps given information willingly. Perhaps led the charge and killed Maxson himself.

He recalled X6-88, another purposefully created synth following questionable orders. The feeling of warm skin under his hands as he snapped the courser’s neck in Rivet City stuck with him. With his stomach twisting due to the memory, he stood, rubbed at his face, nails scratching over stubble, and walked outside.

Bright sunlight made him squint. Sanctuary Hills wasn’t quite the bustling hub it had been earlier that year. With the Minutemen at full force based at the Castle, Sanctuary remained a quaint, tight-knit community of those close to Danse and Paladin Nate Sterling. Being so close to the airport was still dangerous for Danse, so he was content to work remotely. Over twenty-five sizable Commonwealth settlements were in full swing, trade routes strong and well maintained. Only Minutemen provisioners walked those trails, standard traders still banned. Sterling didn’t trust them, and that was good enough reason for Danse to maintain the embargo.

Sturges remained, as did Mama Murphy. And Dogmeat. And Codsworth, who was currently out on assignment with John, acting the role of guard-robot. Marcy and Jun Long had finally separated, Sturges’ background as a synth the final straw for Marcy, and she now lived at fishing village along the coast. Piper came and went, mostly when Sterling was on leave from the Prydwen. The two of them seemed to have developed a casual romance of sorts. Danse did his best to stay out of their affairs while John loved to tease. Haylen appeared now and again in civvies, using her leaves to train medical personnel in the Minutemen locales. Hugs between her and Danse had become fluid and natural.

The sparse leaves of Sanctuary’s sapling oaks had begun to dry and crack, becoming brittle as autumn deepened. In the side yard of John’s old house, a single leaf fluttered in the cooling breeze, snapping free of its branch. It pirouetted in lazy circles to the ground, landing at the boots of Vault 111’s sole survivor. “Fall in New England isn’t what it used to be,” Sterling commented, wearing his old, blue jumpsuit. When off duty, he never wore his Brotherhood one anymore. “The trees were a rainbow of shades. Each year looked like a painting.”

Danse blinked back surprise. “When did you get here? I mean… Hello.”

Sterling’s laugh was full and deep. “Hello,” he repeated, lined eyes kind. “Had a ‘bird drop me in Concord. It’s the middle of the month.”

“Yes,” Danse said, embarrassed to have lost track of time. “So it is.”

Engrossed in his duties as General and the reflection over his own history, Danse hadn’t anticipated the date. Sterling visited the second week of each month to offer what support he could and to catch up with friends. The Paladin also keep the Brotherhood at bay. Despite the destruction of the Institute, the Prydwen remained tethered like a dark cloud over the airport. Maxson had insisted on an excavation team to unearth any possible surviving tech. Though Cambridge looked like a construction zone of gantries and scribes in Excavator power armor, they had yet to exhume anything impressive. Thank goodness. Minutemen and Brotherhood patrols clashed constantly on the ground, jockeying for status and respect, drawing the majority of Sterling’s efforts to quell those under his command. It would be a blessing when Maxson called it quits and the Prydwen set sail. 

“Walk with me?” Sterling asked, jerking a thumb over his shoulder and towards Piper’s home away from home a few doors down. Sterling hadn’t set foot near his original house since the day the Institute fell.

“Of course.” The two of them took a slow stroll through Sanctuary’s main thoroughfare. Though Danse neglected to wear the General’s uniform for anything other than formal events, he bore a heavy denim jacket with the Minutemen logo of the intersecting musket and lighting bolt emblazoned on the back with simple settler clothing underneath. “Have you heard from our friends underground?” he asked, keeping the topic a low profile.

Sterling gave a quick yet casual glance around, scanning for crows. They hadn’t seen any since the end of the Institute, but it never hurt to be cautious. “They’re slammed. Don’t think the Railroad ever anticipated such an influx of synths. There’s quite the waitlist for wipes.”

“Not surprising,” Danse said, giving a courteous wave to Jun as he intended the fields. After the Institute’s fall, Danse had acted fast to establish manned checkpoints at every major pathway in the Commonwealth to catch unprocessed synths and Institute refugees. The synths were given immediate shelter and support. How the scientists were dealt with was trickier, Danse needing a greater moral and lawful solution than execution. The former town of Covenant had become an internment camp of sorts, Ronnie Shaw and himself giving case by case interviews to see who, if any, could be rehabilitated to collaborate with the Minutemen. It was hard, slow work. Some spat directly in his face, some pleaded desperately pleaded for options. His old paladin self would have just shot them and been done with it, but as a synth he’d learned to value second chances. 

Change was difficult to accept. Danse knew that well. If he looked too closely at his memories, cracks emerged, holes where the images didn’t quite line up. Intimate remembrances of Cutler occasionally revealed another man’s face, a stranger where Cutler’s should have been and moments where Danse’s own skin bore Cutler’s mahogany shade. These were Cutler’s recollections, not Danse’s at all. According to the fractured M7-97 file, Cutler didn’t die a mindless mutant, didn’t die by Danse’s hand. He died in the Institute, disposed of once his memories had been downloaded. Knight Cutler had been dutifully Brotherhood and, through no fault of his own, became a tool used by an opposing side. Danse _was_ Cutler in so many ways – his personality matrix, the story of his upbringing, his sexuality and ambitions.

At Piper’s house, Sterling went in first. Though she wasn’t home, Danse never liked to intrude on other’s property, and he hovered near the door until Sterling invited him in with a wave. Danse hadn’t spent much time in Piper’s house before, but the addition of a power armor station in the carport and bit of old world items on display, including a trifold flag mounted over the sofa, spoke of Sterling’s touch.

Sterling flopped onto a couch, at ease atop flattened cushions while Danse took a seat at a dining table. “The mem-wipe backlog might be bad, but it’s nothing like it was,” said Sterling, continuing they conversation as he unsnapped the collar of his jumpsuit. His holotag chain peeked out, glinting in the afternoon light that spilled in from open windows.

“True,” Danse agreed, leaning elbows on the table. “I suppose the Minutemen benefit the most from that.” As time went on and the wait for new memories continued, many of the escaped synths made friends and created new roles for themselves. Grounded by connections and relationships, many were opting out of mindwipes, and the Minutemen numbers were swelling. The freed synths were model soldiers – they took orders well and wanted to please. They were given safety and companionship for efforts that didn’t even seem like work.

The Commonwealth was flourishing. Danse allowed himself a proud smile.

“And you? How are you doing?” Sterling asked, putting his feet up on couch and tucking arms behind his head.

“Me?” Danse was inexperienced in sharing personal details but knew Sterling’s intensions were good. He tapped fingertips against the table before saying, “Surprisingly well. Considering.”

Sterling’s face pinched slightly. “Yeah. Considering. Are you okay? Is he?”

Danse hesitated to answer. “It’s… difficult. But we’re managing.”

John hadn’t experienced a single feral slip since coming back up top. But concern came from another angle. As a glowing one, John emitted a low level of radiation. Negligible really, for anyone that came in limited contact with him. As it stood, Danse was really the only person at risk. John’s new status concerned Danse, even him frightened a little, but it was still John, and Danse loved him. They’d taken what precautions they could – a RadAway drip was rigged on Danse’s side of their bed and Jimmy Hat condoms had made a reappearance to ensure extra safety. A consistent dosage of Rad-X lowered Danse’s immunity somewhat, and he was ill more often than he’d like. That was when radiation sickness snuck in, busting through all the rad meds and caution. So much for the _synths being immune to rads_ myth.

Sometimes, the pulsating glow coming from John’s body kept Danse up at night. He would lay still and watch the color shimmer on the walls of their room, marveling in what constituted as a normal life for him now. Thinking about John made his heart swell. They’d come so far, a lofty feat for both of them. Danse tugged at the hem of his sleeve, rubbing the material. “Is this a normal human reaction? To feel… overwhelmingly full?” His hand floated over his chest. “For it to feel both painful and fantastic? And yet, for it to not be enough? To both fear and hope simultaneously?”

“Oh, Danse.” Sterling’s eyes softened, an encouraging smile spreading across his face. “It is normal, and it is very human. And, I fear, exceedingly rare.”

“I asked him to marry me,” Danse revealed. Neither he nor John had mentioned it to anyone. “Well, he asked first, but I was… unprepared. And unkind about it.”

Sterling’s feet swung to the floor with a thunk. His eyes rounded. “So, you two are…?”

“We’ve agreed to, yes. Though I’m not sure I’m going about this correctly. How would I know?” Danse had met very few married couples in his life and never of the same gender. He didn’t know what rituals would be appropriate. At the proposal, he hadn’t given John a token, had no idea what would be appropriate. John’s ring finger already sported a bauble representing the child the he would never have with the girl from Liberty Isle. Danse would never ask him to remove it.

There was no cause for worry. Sterling got up and began to twist his gold wedding ring from his finger. “We both have big meat hands,” he said, sliding the ring free. “Should be close enough.” He offered it to Danse.

“Paladin… Nate, no,” said Danse. He stood but held his palms up in denial. This was too great an honor. “That’s yours. It should go to family.”

With a wistful smile, Sterling stressed, “It _is_ going to family. All synths share some basis of my DNA. In a way, you’re my grandson.”

In the pause that followed, both shifted nervously. “Sorry,” said Sterling, brow furrowing.  
“That sounds weird out loud.”

“Agreed,” said Danse, an odd sensation prickling within him. Was he related to all other synths? Were they… family? Too many questions he wasn’t ready to have answered.

“Should I never mention it again?”

“Please,” Danse pled, thankful.

“Still,” Nate pushed. “You should have it. I insist. And the other.”

Overwhelmed with gratitude, Danse accepted the ring while Sterling fussed with the clasp on his holotag chain. A second, smaller ring was looped between the tags. Sterling slid it off and Danse took that one as well. Staring at the baubles in his hand, Danse’s mouth went dry. “I’m honored. I’m not sure how to repay you.”

Sterling clapped Danse on the shoulder. “You can by being happy. I think you’ve earned that much.”

A whirring of the motion-activated turrets at the entry gate caused both of them to dart outside, Danse pocketing the rings as he moved. No shots were fired, and the turrets return to stasis. A friendly at the gate? Sterling and Danse reached the entrance of the wide wooden barrier surrounding Sanctuary in time to hear, “Goodness me. Hello? Alas, I don’t quite have the propulsion to make it over the fence.”

“Hold on, Codsworth,” said Sterling as he and Danse each took a side of the wide barricade slat and lifted it free. Sterling pulled one side of the gate open and Codsworth floated through the opening. The robot was alone.

Danse heart skipped. “Where’s John?” he asked, fighting to keep his voice even.

Codsworth’s torso spun, a claw pointing back out the gate. “Down the river, I believe. There was a brief fracas with a frightened settler and a can of beans.”

“In Vault 88?” Danse frowned. That’s where they’d gone, and it was odd to find anti-ghoul behavior there considering the overseer was one. Hot embers stirred to life in Danse’s belly, driven to barely-capped anger that anyone dared to hurt his John.

“Oh, no, no. On the way back.”

In that case, it was a wonder John’s glowing self hadn’t been shot on sight. John had never quite respected the threat of danger, meeting it head-on instead of thoughtfully planning an alternate method. He’d been too public since his change, reveling in the Commonwealth’s stunned opinion of him, thinking it quaint and almost funny as people would gawk. A foolish move, but one Danse couldn’t control lest he place John in a cage.

Danse charged through the gate and left the safety of Sanctuary to scramble down a riverbank. His scuffed boots splashed through shallow water, heading west of the settlement. A military transport had wrecked near to the community the day the bombs dropped, dumping barrels of hazardous waste on a sandbar. It was easy to spot John seated atop one of the punctured barrels in his road leathers, tattered flag and head-covering bandana. A satchel sat in his lap. He was rubbing his cheek and smoking a cigarette.

“John!” Danse called, going as near as he dared. “Are you alright?” The spilled radioactive material was potent, a salve for ghouls, healing any injury John had sustained. He gave Danse a grim wave and held a finger aloft. _Wait._ Very well. 

A long, anxious two minutes later, John hopped down and wallowed over in his tall boots to meet Danse. His ragged face had a sour expression. “The bot tell you? Look, I was ugly before. No harm done.”

Danse reached to inspect John’s face, prodding it with careful fingers, checking the socket and cheekbone for hairline fractures until John twisted away. “It’s nothin’. Lady tossed it and ran, scared outta her wits. C’mon, how many ghouls have you chucked cans at?”

“None.” Committing such an act was an infantile display, even in his heyday. But his Brotherhood peers had taken great delight at tormenting ghouls, feral or not.

John shrugged. “Guess I’m just used to it. You learn to move fast.” He lifted the satchel and shook it. There was no noise from inside, but John seemed pleased. “Got the last of the records from all non-hostile towns and settlements. Good to go. Well, ‘xept for Diamond City, but Piper’s bringing those up.”

“I’m glad.” Danse rubbed John’s shoulder in support. “I know this means a lot to you.”

“Fuck all about me,” said John, green eyes bright and excited. “This means the future of the Commonwealth. Trade revenues, leadership summaries, regional laws and practices, just plain data. I can do this now. The Commonwealth Provisional Government is coming back. And I get to write the constitution.” His satisfied smile wavered a little. “Nick would… Nick would be proud to know it’s gonna happen.” 

“I’m certain he would be.” Danse’s heart warmed at the sight of John so enthusiastic and passionate. He took John’s hand and led him out of the river, only letting go to climb up the embankment to Sanctuary.

John was very good at cataloging details. He always had been. The execution of ideas was where he fell short. But with Danse as General, Sterling as Brotherhood liaison, the Railroad on friendly terms, a recovering MacCready handling Goodneighbor, and Kessler from Bunker Hill finally a full Minutemen supporter, now was the perfect time to propose a unified government. Synths, ghouls and humans all equally represented. Together, they could truly rebuild the Commonwealth, physically and through affiliation. The hope to push out raiders, mutants and, with time, the Brotherhood, was no longer a fantasy but a matter of time.

“Ding, ding, here she is,” John heralded as he got up onto the concrete roadway leading to the Old North Bridge. Danse joined him in time to see Piper crossing the bridge towards them. The brim of her cap was tugged so far down it hid her face. Her hands were empty. “Where’s the info?” John pestered, folding his arms over the strap of his satchel.

Piper stopped a few feet away and tilted her head up. Worry had etched lines in her face. Her hollowed eyes locked onto John’s. Sudden alarm made Danse’s spine go ramrod straight. “What’s wrong?” he asked, gaze bouncing between the both of them.

“John,” Piper began, toying with the frayed end of her scarf. “It’s your brother.”


	2. The Synthetic Truth

PIPER

Diamond City, MA

October 13th, 2288

After years spent chipping away at the truth, following cold leads and grasping fervently at half-cocked rumors Piper finally had the bastard. The elation that she’d been right all along was met with cold, hard reality, though. She couldn’t just burst into the mayor’s office, screech, “ _Aha_!” and expect McDonough to fall to his knees in contrition. She didn’t have the finesse to persuade him into a mistake – but John did. She didn’t have the authority to fight a city official – General Danse did. Man, did she count her lucky stars tonight.

Since cutting through Cambridge was out of the question – one, due to the Brotherhood excavation project, and two, the high amount of lingering radiation from the Institute’s blown reactor – they took a time-consuming trek past Graygarden and Oberland Station. By now, Minutemen night patrols were out watching the road, keeping the causeways clear to threats. Piper politely waved to them while Danse saluted and John kept his head down.

Piper wasn’t sure if John’s fearless showboating of his glowing status was immensely brave or incredibly stupid. Her past experiences with him made her believe the latter. Dealing with run-of-the-mill ghouls raised nearly everyone’s hackles. One that pulsed with nuclear power knocked people silly. But John had always been a gambler. Someday, that was going to bite him hard.

Tonight though, as the three of them made their way to Diamond City, the ghoul wasn’t his usual, showboating self. Sullen, John walked silently, rubbing Danse’s former holotags between his fingers. The road behind them was absolutely littered with empty chem canisters, bottles and boxes that John churned through on the trip. He’d finish one chem and immediately switch to the next. Danse, surprisingly, held his tongue, though tight features spoke of his concern. If they’d had time to address the matter, Piper would have backed Danse up with an empathetic intervention.

“Glad you guys are coming to deal with this. I didn’t want to blast it out over the radio,” Piper said to fill the silence. When the Institute sent all the synths up to the surface, Guy McDonough had been among them. A couple of witnesses verified seeing him pop back into the Wasteland amid a cluster of Institute personnel. He’d left a trail of bodies trying to hide that until the truth, or Piper’s dogged pursuit of it, finally caught up to him. “Diamond City guards agreed to keep quiet for twenty-four hours. Don’t want to egg McDonough or anyone else into doing something crazy.” She’d bought their silence with two months’ rent worth of caps. The universe language of currency could tilt almost anyone’s allegiance. 

“Did you have a plan in mind?” asked Danse. He had his laser rifle, Piper had her handgun, and John carried a no-fucking-around assault rifle.

“If it’s easy, surrender followed by a full confession. But when are things ever easy?” Piper blew a breathy sigh. If anybody could strongarm a confession out of someone, Danse was your man. He’d been doing it for weeks with those rounded up from the Institute. But he was still quick to overreact, shoot first, and leave answers bleeding out on the ground. If Danse popped the fake McDonough too quickly, they’d never know what kinds of treachery were in play. “Let’s try and talk before you start shooting, okay?”

“At the sign of a threat, I will gun him down,” Danse promised.

“Do your best to refrain, ‘kay?” Piper pleaded.

“The situation will dictate appropriate action.”

“Oh, brother…” Piper muttered, dread toying with her, sending anxious tendrils to squirm in her belly.

John remained mute and bought another Jet inhaler to his mouth.

It felt a little mean to make John come with them, but there was no way around it. He had a unique history with Diamond City, the secret passages through the Fens, and of course, McDonough himself. Well, the real one. Heck, maybe even this one. The Institute had been prodding the inner workings of Diamond City since the Broken Mask incident and the days of the original Commonwealth Provisional Government. The city was a hot spot of activity for the region. Made sense to make it a focus of infiltration. 

Passing the Beantown Brewery, John, still eerily quiet, glided into leading their group, nudging the other two to follow him off the road and down a dirt path. Avoiding Brotherhood personnel, their group cut through the reservoir to the Fens, sneaking past crumbling apartment units and down a few winding alleys to reach the back of the stadium. Peeking between buildings, Piper noted that the massive Wall was still down, warding off both Brotherhood units that hung around the area and closing trade. Jeez, there were a lot of soldiers winding between alleys, stomping in power armor while scribes hovered with clipboards in hand, looking to the world like they were waiting for something.

The city council was in a panic, terrified of letting outsiders in. That Institute personnel had emptied into the Wasteland was common knowledge. Were any of the escaped coursers wily enough to try and pass as a trader to gain admittance and infiltrate the city? That was too high a risk to take, so the Wall remained shut, affecting the circulation of Piper’s newsletter and irking those in the marketplace to no end. And boy – if the Brotherhood knew that the city had been run by a synth, they would no doubt storm the barricade and burn the entire place to the ground. It rubbed Piper the wrong way to leave Nate out of this, but he’d need plausible deniability should everything go sideways.

Looping around the outskirts of the city brought them to the back entry which housed Diamond City security’s secondary station within a loading dock. Two floodlights shone on either side of the dock, flinging white light into the adjacent alleys. Nearly dozen officers milled about inside, guns and swatters in hand, looking nervous and abnormally stiff in their umpire armor. Among them, Piper spotted Danny Sullivan’s trademark red hair. “Hang back, guys,” she told John and Danse. “Gimme a sec.” Leaving them in the shadows, she marched up to the security center.

“Piper!” Sullivan called out. He elbowed through the other officers to greet her. “Thank gosh. He – it’s –in the office with Geneva. Told us to let the Brotherhood in.”

“The Brotherhood?” Piper asked. “Why in the world–?”

“I don’t know. I didn’t want to let on, so we didn’t say anything. You brought help?”

“Sure did.”

With a jerk of her chin she signaled for Danse and John to approach. Danse came first, stepping into the light, his empty hands in plain view, though Piper knew how fast he could snap his rifle up. John wasn’t nearly as trusting. He came forward with his gun in a tight grip.

“Oh, Christ! It’s one of those things!” Sullivan yelped. A ripple a sharp fear rolled off the guards, palpable, charging the air. Each one of them brandished their weapons and, predictably, Danse responded in kind.

Piper flung herself to one side and out of the line of potential fire. “Wait, wait!” she shouted. “That’s John! It’s John McDonough!”

The glow in John’s body gave a violent pop of brilliance before subsiding. “Hold up, there, kid,” he told Sullivan in a warning tone. “Don’t go makin’ trouble for no reason.”

The guards began spluttering amongst themselves, guns wavering.

“ _John_? What? How?”

“I don’t get it.”

“It’s him! Look at the flag!”

“How on earth –?”

“We don’t have time for this,” said John, his green eyes burning with vivid intensity. “We’re headin’ into the field. Keep an ear out.” The fact that a glowing one was speaking, and in such a relatable manner, made a few guards put their guns away. “Get to the ticketing elevator and get ready,” John added, his voice a low growl. “Sign of trouble, take it up to the office.”

“What will trouble sound like?” Sullivan asked.

“Gunshots,” answered Danse, weapon down but finger near the trigger.

“Um, yeah. Sounds good.” Looking flustered, Sullivan went to work selecting backup to accompany him to the elevator.

Piper was glad to avoid the elevator. That thing grinded like a mutant’s teeth, making a surprise approach impossible. “The field?” Piper repeated as John walked with purpose through the guard station. She and Danse fell in step behind him.

“Yep. Takin’ the detour.” John pulled a nondescript metal door open and slithered inside. The others followed and found themselves in a service tunnel, pitch black save for John’s glow. He easily maneuvered around corners and up tight stairwells. “Used this route during city curfews,” John explained. “Leads to where we gotta be.”

At another simple door, John opened it to reveal the entirety of the fields before them. Starlight twinkled beyond the city’s massive reactor, the marketplace empty except for a few patrons at the noodle shop. John had led them to a section of ruined stadium seating right below the Upper Stands. In all her years of living in the city, Piper hadn’t once noticed this entrance. Diamond City was rife with secrets that would take a lifetime to discover.

The lowered infield lift sat to their left. Once the three of them hopped onto it, John punched the red button that would take them to the Stand office. It creaked gently but carried them smoothly through the night toward events that would change the city forever. Piper took a deep breath and let it escape slowly. Jitters and a rush of justice-at-hand swooped through her.

As they rose up to the wide landing platform leading to the office Piper caught sight of Geneva at her desk, head propped on a hand, blonde bob brushing her cheek as she stared dully down at paperwork, working by lamplight. A set of steel doubles doors to the main office behind her were closed. The age of the stadium showed plainly up here, the brick walls brittle and crumbling. “Psst,” Piper hissed, the lift jerking to a halt. 

Geneva blinked in her direction as the platform unfolded. “Uh. Ms. Wright,” she groaned, standing. “It’s late. Please. As I’ve said before, you have to make an appointment.”

“Is he here?” Danse questioned, stepping of the lift and crossing into the office.

Geneva’s annoyance switched to wide-eyed alarm at the sight of a big, strange man with a primer laser. “Who? The mayor? I… Of course. B-but you can’t just –”

“Leave, G!” John barked, feral fury riding his voice. He jumped off the platform and landed hard on both feet, rolling his shoulders back as he straightened, putting his full glowing self on display as he stalked towards her. The power in his green eyes crackled. Geneva screeched and rushed out of the room, swinging herself over a windowsill to get to the lift faster. She cowered as the lift lowered her out of sight.

The reward for Piper exhausting efforts were close enough to touch. The thrill of it urged her onwards, almost like hands pushing at her back. With reception cleared, Piper ran headlong to the office door. She tried the knob, throwing herself at the door only to bounce off. It was locked solid. “Oh, c’mon.” In frustration, she delivered a solid kick to the door, nearly breaking her foot in the process. Hopping backwards, she shouted, “I knew it! I knew you were a synth, McDonough!”

“Yes, Piper. Congratulations,” the mayor’s smug voice floated through the door. “You’ve won.”

Answers were so close that they tickled her taste buds. Like a wild woman, she banged her fists against solid steel. “Dammit. It won’t budge.”

Danse put a hand on her shoulder, pulling her back. He gave a single pound on the door. “This is the General of the Minutemen,” he said in a terrifyingly commanding voice. “Open up.”

“I don’t answer to the likes of you. Go block the roads. You’re good at that,” McDonough continued to taunt.

It dawned on Piper that McDonough was trapped in there. The office led to a few side rooms, but that was all, and wall of windows framed the opposite wall. He was either depending on back up or a last stand. There was no way to wrap this up neatly. She swung pleading eyes at John. If he couldn’t talk McDonough down, Danse would have to handle this with force. And McDonough was unlikely to go quietly.

Where a normal person might have been green with unease, John just looked tired. A Mentat tin slid back into his pocket as he approached the door. He paused before rapping a calm knock, tapping out _Shave-and-a-Haircut_ with a knuckle. “Guy,” he said, his voice soft but still gruff due to ghoulism. “Guy, it’s John.”

“John, who?”

John’s hands curled into tight fists. The jade light inside of him flared a little brighter. He kept his voice at a careful level. “Your goddamn brother, idiot.”

“My brother is dead. Or as good as, in any case.”

Whether it was the synth’s lie or the realization that one of the McDonough brothers was certainly dead, Piper couldn’t tell, but something set John off. His hand fell to his assault rifle as he spun, turning his back on the doors. “I’m done role-playing,” he snapped. In a few swift steps he reached Geneva’s desk and felt around beneath it. It was easy to forget that John knew his way around the Stands and had spent quite some time in this very office.

A mechanism under the desk clicked, and the doors swung open. Danse was through them before the motion stopped, laser rifle up and ready. Piper whipped her pistol out as she and John pressed in.

They met in a draw. “That’s far enough! Come any closer and I swear you’ll regret it!” McDonough spat, backing deeper into the room, brandishing a pipe gun. Not the greatest of weapon choices, pipe guns were more of a just-in-case kinda thing that no one really plans on using. Piper guessed he’d never been physically threatened before, never been in a fight, hell, probably never even fired a gun. He looked… same as always – portly and arrogant, with his dumb hat and dried flower boutonniere.

Hot, angry energy rippled off of John, making her right side tingle. To her left, Danse was wound tight but calm, staring down his sights, ready for a signal to act. Piper’s blood pumped with vindication. “You’re not getting off the hook that easy, McDonough,” she said, glee ridding an undercurrent in her voice. “There’s gonna be the trial of the century. You have to answer for what you’ve done.”

McDonough was unflinching. “What _I’ve_ done?” he repeated. “This is my city! Mine! I followed orders, just like I was meant to. I did everything right. I am the model of dedication and loyalty!” Danse’s shoulders hunched at that. Perhaps McDonough’s words landed too close to his paladin soul. “Look around you, Piper,” he continued, the pipe gun bobbing as he spoke. “The city is flourishing. The people are happy. _That’s_ what I’ve done.”

“And the ghouls?” John rasped, the gun in his grasp tight to his body but not fully raised. “The people you turn away? They came to _me_. I got them. The ones that made it to Goodneighbor, that is. And they weren’t doing too hot.”

McDonough finally gave John a good stare. Though his lip curled in revulsion, no fear crossed his round face. “Look at you, you hideous monstrosity – radiation barely contained in a meat casing. You’re trash, rubbish, just like the majority of the things that crawl upon the surface. Disgusting. Who cares about the lesser things that die up here? It’s better off that they do.”

That party line seemed familiar. A bell dinged in Piper’s mind. The mass of soldiers haunting the Fens suddenly made sense. “You want the Brotherhood to take the city,” she guessed. “The Institute can’t protect you anymore. You want the solider boys to fight the Minutemen influence. Keep all rehomed synths and ghouls fighting for the Commonwealth out. You stay on top and keep this place exclusive.”

A slow, menacing smile split McDonough’s face, confirming her suspicions. “I’m a man of resourcefulness. The Elder thought it a good partnership.”

“Liar,” Danse growled, trigger finger too tight for Piper’s liking. “Maxson wouldn’t want a war with the Minutemen.”

“Wouldn’t he?” McDonough countered. “Why stay once the Institute is gone, then? What’s to stop him from conquering the savage north?”

Danse’s neck went red. Piper felt as if she were juggling, making sure McDonough stayed alive through his provoking. She wouldn’t blame John or Danse for landing the killing blow, but that would leave the pursuit of answers unfulfilled. Eliminating McDonough now meant taking out an agent of both the Institute and the Brotherhood. They were treading dangerous ground.

“And how do you think this is gonna end, Guy?” John asked. “We’re ain’t all goin’ home happy.”

“The SRB is coming for me,” McDonough promised. “Units of fully trained coursers. I’m far too important to be discarded and tossed to the wolves. They’ll be on their way now, ensuring I stay in power. It’s just a matter of moments. I’m certain of it.” He finally cracked towards the end, voice breaking, fear sweat giving him away.

“No one is coming,” Danse assured. “Stand down.”

John took a cautious step closer. “It’s done. How many more people gotta die because of your self-serving righteousness?”

Something terrible and mad gleamed in McDonough’s eyes. “As many as it takes.” He swung his gun at Piper.

Years of hardened Wasteland survival spurred her movement, more reflex than intent. Piper’s pistol landed two rounds in McDonough’s chest before his wild shot sailed over her shoulder, shattering a window on its way out. Realizing what she’d done, Piper yelped in surprise as McDonough slumped to the floor.

“You… infernal… bitch,” McDonough spouted. He flopped face-first onto the dirty tile floor. Very human-looking blood spread between the grout, etching grisly designs in the floor as the synth died.

“Oh, my god,” Piper whispered, shaking as her stomach churned. McDonough didn’t deserve worse but didn’t think she would be the one to end him.

She’d put a stop to it, to the rumors, the threat and paranoia. It was over. But McDonough had taken his secrets to the grave.


	3. Political Leanings

JOHN

Diamond City, MA

October 13th, 2288

John desperately wanted to feel something – rage, disgust, haughty satisfaction that this imposter was dead – but as he watched his brother’s double spill blood along the Diamond City office floor, he couldn’t push past the numb bubble enveloping his mind. Everything fell into soft focus – images blurred and sound took way too long to travel. Blaming chems or shock or the combination of both wouldn’t change the fact the he observed the scene with the same detachment as viewing one of those old black-and-white picture shows.

He wandered over to the windows, stepping over the blood puddle, and lit a cigarette. The city below slept, the stalls empty, far-off dots of patrolling guards roving through passageways. Neon signs glowed, their buzz too far away to hear. John remembered the sound, white noise humming at all hours outside Home Plate. Nate owned the property now, though the time he spent at the city had drastically diminished since his paladin promotion. Nick’s old office must be falling into obscurity, cheating spouses and petty grievances taking a backseat to recent issues in the region.

A ding behind him heralded the appearance of Diamond City security. Gunshots had been their signal. John didn’t turn to receive them. “Wow. Piper. Jeez,” Danny Sullivan said. “Are you all okay?”

“No, Danny. We’re not,” Piper responded, her voice trembling. “Can you, um, give us a few to see if he left anything behind?”

“Sure. I’ll send a cleanup crew in about twenty. And… you were right, Piper. All along. Sorry about doubting you.”

“Had to wait for proof. And now we have it.”

That same faith had never visited John. He’d never bought into the suspicions, the back alley talk, and outright accusations about Guy being a synth. His brother had always been an overbearing ass. The few good memories John had were hazy, little more than snapshots from his youth, back when their parents had been alive, and Guy hadn’t needed to act as his guardian. John recalled the funeral following the hurricane, both boys in black watching services for their mother and father.

Sullivan’s footsteps retreated. “Alright, guys,” the guard to his team. “Let’s take it back downstairs and work on our stories. You know how the city loves rumors.” Shuffling and low muttering accompanied the guards as they got back in the elevator.

The three of them were alone again. Well, four, counting the stiff on the floor. John’s cigarette was down to the filter. Flippant, he flicked it into the pool of blood.

“John –” Danse began, fingers brushing his shoulder.

“Don’t,” John said, twisting away. He pulled out his crumpled pack of smokes. Stomach-churning thoughts wanted to bang into his mind, but he couldn’t deal with reality yet. “Just… leave me for a sec.”

“If you’re certain,” Danse agreed, sounding pretty uncertain himself.

The lighter shook in John’s grip, refusing to cooperate. Scant sparks flew but the flame never caught. John gave up and rubbed glowing hands over his face, fingers tracing down familiar fissures. Old arguments floated up from the depths of memory. Anger crept in with more force than he’d ever felt when Guy had been alive. Who’d given the order to shove the ghouls out of the city – his brother or some Institute patsy? Had he wasted years hating the man for no reason? When the city’s cleanup crew took the body away and discovered a synth component in place of its brain, nothing would change. The past was written in stone no matter who’d done the engraving.

From a corner of his eye, Piper moved into view heading towards the mayoral desk nearby and the terminal that sat atop it. Her fingers clacked across the keys as she said, “Hey, Danse. Could ya’ frisk the… you know–”

“Yes. Of course.”

A ruffling of clothes. John held firm and didn’t turn to watch his lover check his brother’s double for clues. The anger wavered, slipping into something less certain and more uneasy. An old ceramic umbrella stand sat in a corner. Tall and tubular, it housed a single wooden swatter, handle poking out. Keeping a swatter around was simple home defense kind of stuff, not uncommon in the city.

Piper gave a frustrated sigh. Coming down from his shake up, John watched her shove away from the terminal in disgust. “Nothing unexpected here,” she said. “Usual elitist entitlement propaganda.”

“Is this anything?” Danse asked, standing. He offered Piper a folded piece of paper which she greedily snagged.

The room was still as the dead body on the floor as Piper skimmed the note. “Oh, jeez. Well… I guess this is what I was looking for. And it’s signed, M7-62.”

A quick shudder passed through Danse as if touched by a breezy chill, “M7- _62_?”

“That’s what it says.”

The muscles in Danse’s jaw jerked and he gave John a quick glance. Apologies spilled from his dark eyes. “I’m an M7 model,” said Danse, bringing his gaze back to Piper. “I was activated the summer of 2277.”

“What does that mean?” asked Piper, looking up from the note.

“It means your former mayor was replaced long before his brother ever arrived in the Commonwealth.”

An earlier designation than Danse’s own. As John recalled, he’d first laid eyes on Diamond City in super early autumn of ’77. Guy had been killed and replaced by the Institute while John was dallying elsewhere.

Danse gestured at the paper. “What does the note read?”

“Well, it’s got me in it, for one,” said Piper, scanning the words. “Asked for an agent to put me to pasture. Nice.”

She kept talking, listing offenses, but her voice blurred to white noise in John’s ears. His hand fell to lift the swatter from the stand. Its _shish_ ed where it gently scraped ceramic. The wood grain in the barrel was stained the brown shade of old blood. The knob, capped with tiny bronze plaque read, _Stay safe, darling – Papa._

This had belonged to Eliza Roberts. 

The room faded and John found himself down in the Field the night after his brother took office. A swell of noise engulfed the city, guards ringing the Stands. Fires burned on the outskirts, melting tires and singed seating giving the air a rancid odor. His hair stuck to his neck in sweaty clumps. Milky-hued eyes looked to him for answers as a small, withered hand touched his wrist. _Do I have to go too, John?_

“John?”

He snapped back to the present and found Danse peering curiously at him. The swatter turned heavy, weighed down with atrocious deeds.

Guy had put it back in the bin afterwards.

The tendons in John’s hands, some visible through splits in his skin, popped, straining as his grip on the swatter tightened. An emerald halo began to cloud the edges of his vision as he started to shake. He felt like a shaken bottle of cola, contents under pressure.

Piper’s voice penetrated his bubble. Her words echoed, sounding as if they were floating down a long tunnel. “There’s a bit about you too, John. Called for an assassination. I don’t think he knew who you were. That you were related. I mean, that you were related to the origin–”

Old muscle memory took control, and John stacked his wrists as he raised the barrel of the bat. Taking stride, he swung the swatter in a solid blow, smashing into the terminal. The screen shattered and keys went flying as it crashed backwards into solid brick. Piper launched herself away from airborne detritus as John continued to land strike after strike, beating the terminal into a crumpled metal mess. He screamed, not words, just sound and pain. His strength grew and he succeeded in driving the wreckage through the desk itself, smashing it apart, sending wooden shards spinning through the air.

An unrecognizable sound tore from John’s throat. He cast the swatter away, throwing it with all his might. Piper and Danse dropped to the floor to avoid it as it went into a horizonal spin, knocking a substantial chunk of brick out of the opposite wall. His vision shifted, and he watched as office dissolved into a kaleidoscope of green shades, Piper and Danse red highlights within the display. Danse’s figure rushed at him, one hand out to pacify him. The other hand, John caught, was gripping his laser.

 _Threat_ , the ether screamed at him.

Something inside John cracked open, instinct overriding his senses. He hunkered down and hissed, teeth bared, fingers flexing and ready to tear. His opponent skipped to a stop, arm slashing the air. The other figure hauled itself to its feet and backed away. It, too, drew a weapon. John and his enemy circled each other, testing for signs of weakness. The man feigned a rush and John leapt to intercept, only for the man to spin out of the way and latch arms around John’s middle, pinning his arms to his sides. John kicked and thrashed, tossing his head, trying to tear the man’s throat out with his teeth.

The more he struggled, the tighter the hold became until John’s temples throbbed with strain. He roared, insides boiling in pain and turmoil. The pressure finally burst, and John’s body sent green energy blasting out in all directions. The glass windows exploded outwards, shards spinning out into the night. The steel office doors creaked on their hinges and papers blew in all directions.

Roiling green clouds and a rush of wind escaped with the eruption, dissipating into thin air, leaving the room just as before, normal and lit by swinging fluorescents, dead body still on the floor. The sound of something steady and familiar tugged John from the brink. He came back to himself, each heartbeat a little less forceful, more and more aware of his surroundings. Danse was whispering reassuring phrases over and over in a low tone, bandy arms wrapped tight around John’s torso. He sagged in Danse’s arms, eyes raking over the destruction he’d sown. “Aw, fuck,” he muttered.

Across the office, Piper hovered by the doors to reception. Open terror shined bright in her eyes. She pointed over her shoulder with a trembling finger. “I… I’m gonna go check on the guys.” She made for the elevator, shoes squeaking on the floor as she ran. 

Gradually, Danse released his hold. John puffed a sigh before facing him. Radiation burns blistered both Danse’s cheeks and across his forehead. Mortified, John’s mouth fell open. “Holy shit. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean –”

“Come with me,” Danse said and thankfully tugged him out of that dreadful office. They boarded the lift again and stood in the cool night air. John tried for another cigarette but that damn lighter wouldn’t catch again, not in John’s nervous hands. Danse took over, clicking the flame into existence in one try, and then calmly fished a RadAway pouch from a pocket in his ammo belt. John repaid him by holding the bag as Danse worked the needle under his skin.

Nicotine did little nowadays, it was the taste and the memories of serenity that did John any favors. Of his chems, he had two Mentats left, but it wasn’t clarity that he craved – it was satisfaction. And that was stolen away. The Institute might be gone but it had one last kick in the pants to offer.

A scent intruded from memory, the sickly-sweet smell of rotten tatoes. John squirmed, feeling a tacky sensation ghost down his back. As a child, Guy had taken great delight at tormenting John – adhesive on his seat, moldy produce down his shirt – of course he’d grown up to think of him as a villain. Guy had been dead for years and no one had known. John couldn’t even tell the difference between his brother and some Institute brand knock-off. He felt as though he had aged one-hundred years in a single twenty-four-hour timeframe. For an awful moment, John wanted nothing more than to throw himself off the lift and hurl to the ground below. 

“He was a synth. The whole time,” John uttered. He looked at Danse. “Kept thinking that synth was gonna be like you. Like you, and he didn’t know. That we’d have to explain it to him. But he knew! He knew the whole time!” Up here observing the city brought back terrible memories. Election night played in his mind again along with all the mistakes he’d made along the way. Wiseman. Eliza. “What happened at the election – what I did – did the Institute make me? Did they make me _me_? Was I in control for any of it?” His exile, the drug that changed him, had it been orchestrated? What if he were just some chess piece, moved around by a higher power?

Danse placed one arm snugly around John’s shoulders and he placed his cheek against the top of John’s head. They stood like that for a time, with John in wallowing anguish and guilt. He wanted to drown in the comfort Danse offered. Wanted, but couldn’t allow himself. “Man, I really screwed it up now,” John grumbled. “Betcha folks saw my lightshow up here. Diamond City loves their rumors. They’ll know who I am soon, and what I can do.”

Hope flared and a crazy thought zigzagged through his mind. He slipped out from under Danse and locked eyes with him. “What if we just go? Escape to someplace where there’s no Diamond City and no smoldering Institute and no damn Brotherhood haunting the shadows. Far enough away, maybe no one would care about synths, never even heard to them. You could be free from all this. We both could be.”

Danse blinked at him with widened eyes. “Is that something you really want to do?”

Cigarette smoked down to its final puff, John crushed it beneath his boot. He wavered and peered through the grate in the lift. “I don’t know what I want. But we can’t keep doing what we’re doing. I’m killing you.”

“You aren’t killing me.”

“Dan, look at you.”

Danse was slow to respond. “Something your brother – something M7-62 said in there… maybe I was a good soldier because I was a synth. Maybe following orders is my duty, no matter where they come from. I’ve made very few decisions by myself and fewer about my own destiny. I’ve made an oath to the Minutemen, but I will never favor a militia over you again. My vow to be with you is stronger. If you must go, I’ll be there with you.”

John felt immensely selfish and dizzyingly relieved. “But,” Danse continued. Of course, there’d be a _but_. “The Constitution,” he reminded. “Hasn’t the Commonwealth waited long enough for true freedom? I’m sure Piper could finish it, although it wouldn’t be the same. I thought… well, I thought that was what you wanted to leave behind. Your legacy.”

There were plenty of times John loathed Danse for being right, this was just one more. In truth, John wasn’t that guy anymore, someone who could skip out and let others shoulder the burden. He didn’t want to run, he wanted relief, and permission to be done. But no one should have to pay the price for his desires. He had a job to do and a region that counted on him. “I… I won’t let the people down,” John promised, frustrated tears sliding down his face. Danse kissed him. John wondered if his glowing tears burned his fiancé’s lips.

John didn’t want to talk anymore, didn’t want to dig himself any deeper. “Gonna check in at Valentine’s place,” he said, pulling away and handing the now-empty RadAway bag back. “Sure Ellie's left a fat stack of cases for the Minutemen to divide up.” More of an excuse to be alone than anything, although Danse was sure to know that.

“You always think of others,” Danse said with a genuine smile, extracting the stubby needle from his arm and crumpling the bag in a fist. Those soft brown eyes gave John a loving look. “I’ll see you at Home Plate later.” They both had a copy of Nate’s key.

John gulped down the lump in in throat. “Yeah. See you.” As soon as Danse exited the lift, John took it down to ground level, glad to put distance between himself and the Stand office. He hopped off, stuffed hands in his pockets and trudged down a short grade into the Field.

John should have known better. There was a section of town down in the Field between the lift and the chapel that remained in pitch darkness no matter how bright the moon was. He’d conducted chem deals there in the past, both buying and selling, and was familiar with the location. As he trotted through it, the rough-formed silhouette of a man took shape. John stopped short and squinted, his new ghoul powers allowing a slight improvement to night vision. Though time had broadened the man’s body, John knew the dark-skinned man’s features. “Hawthorne?”

Hawthorne’s eyes darted to one side and jerked his chin towards John. “There it is,” he declared.

Some type of prong caught John low in the back and a wave of electricity crashed over him, making his muscles seize and lock. He couldn’t even get out a proper scream as he fell to his knees. Once on the ground he was shocked again and toppled completely. In the instant before he blacked out, he saw two figures in hazmat suits grab for him.


	4. Just Business

DANSE

Diamond City, MA

October 14th, 2288

Security was swift and discreet. They scheduled Geneva for briefing while the body, wrapped up in a tarp, went straight to a bunker beneath Diamond City’s clinic to await autopsy where they would extract the synth component and set all skeptics straight. Piper told no one about the note in her pocket. 

There was little left for Danse to do other than send Piper home to recover from rad exposure. In the morning, he’d arrange for a meeting with the city council where they’d discuss mounting tensions between Diamond City, the Minutemen, and the Brotherhood. While waiting for the infield lift to arrive, a surprising amount of chatter floated over from the Stands. It was after midnight, but Danse supposed the concussive blast John emitted had woke many a person. Glass had rained down, no doubt pelting the roofs of those who dwelling beneath the office. Lights blazed in windows while guards went door to door ensuring all was well.

How they were explaining the incident, Danse wasn’t sure. Though his burns had healed, the skin on his face was still tender. He cringed, realizing that Piper would simply tell the truth about John and openly admit his abilities. John had placed himself in a hazardous situation and didn’t fully appreciate the risk that came with such. On the one hand, he couldn’t be blamed for his feral slips. On the other, he didn’t sequester himself despite that being the obvious solution. Not that Danse couldn’t sympathize. Spending the rest of his synthetic days trapped at Listening Post Bravo hadn’t been any real answer, and no way to live.

The scaping sound of the lift’s hydraulics almost cancelled out the steady thumping of propeller motors. Danse’s keen senses barley caught the noise, and he leaned out on the landing platform trying to place the source. On the other side of the Field, among the crops, a blocky dark shape rose to blot out starlight. Up it went, surpassing the Wall, and swung south-southwest until Danse lost track of it.

A vertibird. A vertibird avoiding Brotherhood eyes from both the front gate and north in Cambridge. Curious.

With the lift ready, Danse climbed on and punched the down button. The system barely began to lower when he overheard a conversation.

“So that’s it for John McDonough?”

“I’ll tell ya, he got ugly real fast. That’s what you get if you fuck enough of those walking corpses.” Laugher bubbled and glass clinked.

A thunderclap of alarm rattled Danse’s bones. He slammed the emergency brake so fast it nearly tore free. The lift halted just feet away from a well-lit portion of the Stands. Danse easily jumped the distance between. He quickly crossed to a patio where two young men stood drinking beers. One wore suspenders and slacks and had the suave look of someone who dappled with Goodneighbor types. The other, draped in road leathers, had the hardboiled appearance of a Wasteland mercenary. “What do you know of John McDonough?” Danse demanded, closing the gap between them as frightful anticipation danced up and down his spine.

Both men stared in surprise. “Hey, if you’re lost pal, you best turn right around,” the man in slacks said. “This area’s for residents only.”

“You heard ‘im,” the mercenary sneered. “Beat it.”

Danse one-hit the merc to the ground. The bottles dropped and shattered as the dapper man reached behind his back. Danse countered, whipping his rifle up. “Don’t,” he warned.

The man spread his hands while the mercenary rolled on the ground, cupping his face and calling, “Dude! Nelson, help!”

“Hey, hey, Hawthorne. I ain’t doin’ anything stupid.” Nelson held still, gaze locked on Danse, waiting for him to make the first move.

“I’ll say again, what do you know of John McDonough?” Danse repeated. The charging energy inside _Righteous Authority_ thrummed.

“Underground’s had a mark on him for months,” Nelson answered quick. “Some ghoul that could do freaky stuff. Didn’t know it was ol’ Johnny ‘til tonight. One of the guards said –”

Piper and John’s admission when they entered the city. _That’s John! It’s John McDonough!_ God, Danse thought they’d have a longer grace period before something nasty caught up with them. _Diamond City loves its rumors._ “What did you do? Where is he?” Danse thrust his rifle at Nelson as the merc crawled along the floor. “John. Where is he?”

“Hell, that ‘bird’s probably got him over Sea by now. Who knows?” Nelson shrugged, lip curling as if Danse had inquired the state of last week’s garbage. “For enough dough, you don’t ask questions.”

Leather scraped the ground, giving Danse enough warning to drop his weapon, letting it dangle by the strap, and whirl. His hand locked around Hawthorne’s throat before the man could plunge a knife into him. Hauling the man off his feet, he spun back to face Nelson. “Enough! Answer me!”

“Man, I don’t know! Seriously!” Nelson yelped, drawing in on himself as Danse’s fingers began crushing Hawthorne’s windpipe. “Guys I talked to were just flunkies. It’s… it’s just business. Caps, y’know?”

Money. John was nothing more than a brahmin at market to them. Disgust had Danse trembling with rage. He flung Hawthorne at Nelson, sending the two men toppling, and sprinted back to the lift. By memory, he zagged back through John’s secret tunnel system, arms outstretched in the darkness to make his way by feel. It dumped him out by the city’s scrapyard. He gritted his teeth, thinking hard. It would have been easy to panic, to let despair creep in and overwhelm good sense. But a goal kept Danse centered. John was aboard that vertibird and, come Hell or high water, Danse was going to steal him back.

Could it have reached the Glowing Sea by now? Not likely, but soon. Try as he may, Danse couldn’t find another solution – he’d have to procure another ‘bird in order to catch up. He desperately wished for a way to contact Sterling to charter one of the Brotherhood’s vehicles, but there was no time. It was also too dangerous to venture across the deeply irradiated river to reach the Cambridge Police Station. He’d have to steal one from the patrol base in front of Diamond City. “Balls,” he cursed.

Clinging to night-black shadows, Danse skated around the stadium. He pressed against a barricade, peering out to scout the area. Beyond the city’s defense turrets and obstructing scaffolding a mess of canvas tents bedecked the plaza in front of the Wall. The statue of a man with a swatter stuck up from the center, a sad relic of past leisure, oxidation turning the bronze a muddy shade of turquoise. A few soldiers wandered with their weapons secured. Danse recognized their type – lazy and bored, half-driven to irritation to sit and wait for further command. Had the Brotherhood become so demoralized in his absence that simple duties had turned to drudgery? It was too easy to slip past, weaving between the tents.

Danse knew full well where he was going. Reports from his Minutemen patrols were highly detailed. On the outer edge of the ruined Fens sat a cleared apartment complex. At the very top, the Brotherhood had cleared a landing pad. Slipping down an alley, Danse spotted the tail end of a vertibird poking over one side of the complex rooftop. Soft footsteps carried him through the winding interior staircase, wary of early discovery. The ‘bird would be guarded, but by how many was left to be seen.

There was no door at the rooftop entrance, just a blown-out frame that led to a thinly paved surface. A steel barrel crackled with contained embers, throwing amber firelight over one side of the ‘bird, making the steel siding glow. Near the barrel, a solitary lancer sat on a plastic crate playing a lonely-looking card game. It would be a simple task to subdue him quietly and discretely. Danse circled wide, approaching from the dark side of the ‘bird.

By some cruel trick of fate, a section of rotten roofing gave way beneath Danse’s boot. His foot crashed through and he grunted pulling himself free. The lancer whipped around on his seat. “Who’s there?” he shouted and flicked a flashlight in Danse’s direction. The beam of light landed square on Danse’s face. The lancer froze. “Holy shit. Paladin?”

The glare of the flashlight bright in his eyes, Danse crept forward, biding time as he neared the shell-shocked lancer. “Soldier, I need you to –”

Quick as a gunshot, Danse lurched forward and butted the lancer in the face with his laser stock. As the man fell in a unconscious heap, Danse flipped the weapon muzzle first, changing fusion cells making the barrel glow red. He’d been identified. If the lancer woke with any memory of this incident, it meant the full loss of his freedom and quite possibly the termination of his Minutemen command.

Danse’s stomach churned, nausea causing a tickle in his throat. Little more than a boy, the lancer still had the round face of youth. Danse knew he should kill him. Anyone is his position would do just that. It was the most prudent choice. But Danse couldn’t fathom killing a soldier, a former brother, just for catching him at the wrong moment. He dragged the lancer just inside the doorway to the roof and left him there in an unconscious heap. It was a risky, stupid mistake, but he would not alter it.

Sliding into the ‘bird’s pilot seat, Danse started the motor. Although she wasn’t _Invictu_ s – Danse may very well never see her again – this Brotherhood craft shared the same control system. They were descent vehicles that had no need to refuel, relying on fusion energy. Without a co-pilot, he couldn’t use the onboard guns, but an attack on the unidentified ship would risk harming John. What he’d do once he caught to it… well, he’d figure that out on the go.

Under cover of night, Danse took the veribird into the sky, heading towards the Sea. Once surpassing Greater Boston, he threw the ‘bird into full throttle, exchanging caution for speed. He kept high enough that the irradiated cloud that clung to the Glowing Sea passed harmlessly underneath the belly of the ‘bird. He worried about his six the whole time and what that lancer would say once he awoke. There was little option but to pray that Sterling caught wind fast enough to use his paladin clout and order a stand down. Sterling’s Pip-Boy funneled a plethora of airwaves running through it and Danse had to place faith in his friend. In his friend, and in divine intervention.

Once the Sea had been left behind, Danse found himself in new territory. He’d never been this far west of Boston and didn’t know the territory. His eyes kept darting to the dashboard’s radar monitor, scanning for a blip that gave him some clue of where to go. Dawn was chasing the landscape when he finally spotted it – a tiny _X_ in the lower left-hand corner of the radar screen. The Brotherhood had no business in the area and Gunner ships adhered to the coast. That had to be his target. He swung to chase the mark.

Danse spent the next full day flying, fighting to keep the other ‘bird detected as dread and agitation gnawed on his psyche. The object was so far away that it occasionally disappeared from radar altogether. Just as Danse battled to keep hope, it would reappear, teasing him, ensuring he remain vigilant. Where on Earth was this thing going?

The two ships skirted along the border to annexed Canada for a long time. Lengthy, sprawling bodies of water filled the entire vista to the right. A forested area crept by below, masses of clustered trees giving texture to the terrain. The lancer had left an opened can of water by the console, which Danse paced himself through until it was empty.

The trip lulled Danse into a realm of ongoing caution intercut with the dull monotony of constant flying. Tired and hungry, his mind started to wander, the blur of the landscape beginning to look an endless expense of timberland. Though his eyes felt strained and dry, he kept exhaustion at bay. The Brotherhood had trained him to go a lengthy amount of time without sleep or comfort. _No_ , Danse caught himself. That wasn’t true. The Institute had built and programmed him that way.

The sun went down, marking the second night of the chase. Their adventure in Far Harbor came to mind, of Danse frantically searching for John in the murky landscape. He’d lost track of John too many times, some of it his fault, some John’s, and mostly fate’s. Racing across the remnants of America without back-up and without an inkling of what he’d do once the other craft landed was poor planning and worse judgement. But Danse couldn’t help it. He’d do anything, even battle his own common sense, to keep John with him.

Far ahead and dead center on his windshield, a vivid green pop lit the night sky. Danse recognized the surge of color that brought the enemy ship down, had recently experienced it crawling over his own skin. That airborne detonation was John’s doing, proof that he was alive and extremely livid. A fresh surge of optimism charged through Danse’s veins and he huffed a throaty chuckle of relief.

The blip on radar quivered, jerking from side to side before it ceased moving entirely. Danse began circling, keeping just out of range. The _X_ sat there on the screen, stagnant and taunting, daring Danse to come closer. It must have landed.

Danse brought his ‘bird low, skating over the treeline, searching for a safe place wide enough for a nighttime landing. The square outlines of buildings rose in the distance. Not much, just the shell of a small city. Judging by the placement of the _X_ , it had chosen a landing spot nearby. Danse had to hope that the commotion onboard would drown out the sound of his approach.

He set the ‘bird down in the center of a roadway. Not a stealthy choice, but it avoided the chance of clipping a structure with one of the rotors. After noting the coordinates of the other craft, he tore a Brotherhood survival pack from the wall of the galley – canned water, MREs, rad meds, and a signal flare – slid his arms through the shoulder straps and slung his rifle over his shoulder. He dove out of the cabin and raced to meet the other ‘bird.

It took some weaving and retraced steps to make his way through the unfamiliar municipal, all the while expecting mutants or radscorpions to emerge and attack, as was usual in unsettled cities. A few fat, oversized bugs hummed out of sight, though none chose to confront him. The sign on a post office announced that Danse was in a place called Calhoun County, but he took little time to care. White taxi lights punched through the darkness, spilling out across asphalt. 

Danse squirmed through a gap in chain-link fencing and climbed atop a trash bin to reach for a low section of roofing. He pulled himself up and crouched along what had been a Red Rocket fueling station. Hunkering down, he crawled on his elbows until he could peer over the side. Two nondescript men in orange hazmat suits bickered with each other, holding the headpieces in their hands. Light from the craft’s taxi lights reflected off the plastic face plates.

“Fuck!” one shouted and turned to spit. He was hunched and looked like he’d been vomiting. “Weapons get the special transports. No one said anything about this shit!” He spat again.

“Quit it. It’s probably that no one knew.” The other was leaning against the craft, casting worried glances inside the cabin now and again. He was clutching a bag of RadAway, the faint ginger glow of it visible from the rooftop. “Not like this is any kind of real science. It was all… hypothetical.”

“Like you know anything. Your grandpappy sell you that line?” The first face wiped nervously at his face. “Aw, hell. Is my skin bubbling? Tell me.”

“You’re just as ugly as before. And no. Don’t you read the reports? This was always a possibility.”

“No one alive has the time to read every report ever written. We’re owed extra from this. A promotion, a new lab, caps even.”

There was something wrong with the craft, and it took Danse a moment to figure out why it unnerved him. The tail section was scratched and buffed, its metal dull and pallid. An insignia had once been emblazoned there. This mission to nab John was either unauthorized or designed specifically to avoid pinpointing the responsible party. 

“Alright,” he second man said with a sigh. “We’re close. Let’s get this thing back before it does even more damage. Take a triple dose a Rad-X. I just did.”

“That rad-splosion ate right through our suits! You radio for someone else. I’m not –”

Danse put an end to the man’s complaining by sending a bolt of laser fire straight through his head. Though he’d been queasy over what to do with the lancer, he held no such qualm with killing these abductors. The second man jerked as red energy cut through brain matter and streaked into the air. He stumbled backing into the vertibird.

Since he seemed the smarter of the two, Danse gave him an option. Perhaps he and John could still make some sense out of this kidnapping. “I’ll give you ten seconds before shooting,” Danse warned. Come out with your hands raised!” He jumped to the ground, enduring a rough landing that nearly toppled him. The ‘bird’s motor roared to life and propeller blades began spinning, obscuring Danse’s vision. “Goddamn it,” he cursed. Ducking low, he charged under the blades. He fired at a figure in the cockpit once, then twice more. The motor spouted a sick sound, and the blades slowed to a stop.

Letting the tip of his laser barrel lead him, Danse put one foot inside the cabin and scanned the cockpit. The second man was sprawled over the controls, two burn holes in his body. Three scorch marks marred the dash, buttons melted and smoking. All onboard screens were dark. Danse had inadvertently killed power to the controls. There was no way to trace who these people were.

Danse heaved a sigh and lowered his weapon. Nick, Deacon, McDonough’s double, now these fools – too many people took too many answers to the grave. Ready to grab John and be off, he climbed into the cabin. Looking into the back of the craft, his strength fled, making his shoulders droop and knocking him off balance.

He’d expected to discover John stressed and spitting mad, maybe even feral. He hadn’t counted on finding the ghoul chained to the galley’s floor, writhing in the full throes of chem withdrawal.


	5. The Photograph

DANSE

The Prydwen

September 10th, 2282

Paladin Danse grinned around the stub of a lit cigar. Clustered around a card table in the rec section of the main deck, he, Proctor Teagan, Knight Astlin, and Lancer-Aspirant Rico engaged in a late evening round of five-card draw. Various sized stacks of caps sat before each of them along with an untidy pile at the table’s center. Along with the game came laugher, drinks, smoking, and the kind of lewd ribbing that soldiers were good at. Tara Astlin took the testosterone-laden jokes in stride – she’d just shake her head, dark ponytail swinging, or fire back with something even more crass. Eager to climb rank, Scribe Haylen sat on the floor in a corner, her back against a support column as she burned the midnight oil, tapping information into a holotab, papers scattered in her lap.

 _This isn’t so difficult_ , Danse thought. He could manage this. Officers in good standing did this. Normal people with nothing to hide did as well. When asked to join the others, he’d accepted with little deliberation. Not one to seek out informal engagements, Danse usually opted to keep to himself, either in his quarters at the Citadel or jaunting across the seaboard with John. But both options were lost to him now. John… well, it was easier to breathe without actively juggling to keep him a secret. The two of them were over, and there was no need to contemplate the past. And the Citadel was far to the south. The Prydwen had crossed into Appalachia the day before, recon for the region long overdue.

The waitlist for the Prydwen had been years-long, and Danse counted himself very lucky to gain one of the coveted spots aboard. Both necessity and recreation had dragged him all over the Wastes but experiencing the world from above was quite the difference. The feeling of separation between the cool efficiency of the ship and the rabble down below was prevalent, order versus chaos. Those on board had literally been lifted away from the filth and disorder of ground-level conflicts, of dirt farmers fighting for claim to the largest murky pond, and mutated creatures clashing tooth and claw for supremacy. Aboard the zeppelin, their world was clean and sleek and still smelled of fresh soldering and polished metal, a wonder of modern technology. Though, true, most of the construction details had been lifted from Enclave engineering records, the Brotherhood stood more virtuous and deserving of such advancements. And with the Enclave effectively disassembled since the Battle of Adams, the Brotherhood were the natural successors of all recovered tech. It was theirs to use as they saw fit, as was their right.

Back in the Capital, the new East Coast elder remained at the Citadel supported at his right hand by Arthur Maxson. This was the third since Sarah Lyons’ death. With each new leader, the division wavered, doubt and uncertainty becoming a pedestrian way of life. Theirs had to be the most scattered leadership any branch had ever suffered. Whether the boy intended it or not, young Arthur remained the one constant through it all, and the knowledge that he would one day assume command allowed the entire faction to sleep at night. He was someone they knew, had watched grow up, and the rightful heir to the title. But until he came of age, everyone had to bide their time with work and patience.

The lack of a Head Elder taxed all divisions, including the Mojave chapter, and Danse was secretly glad to have avoided a term of leadership there. The NCR currently occupied New Vegas while the Brotherhood moved to occupy Nellis, which they’d taken by force, forming a perimeter around the city. A civil war between the two militaries was constant and low simmering, open warfare kept at bay by a mediator, some scraggly Wastelander with no business interfering in large scale politics. Allowing an outsider to dictate action equated in Danse’s head to the Mojave Brotherhood cowing in submission, their tail between their legs. No glory in that at all.

On the contrary, the East Coast chapter enjoyed a great deal of freedom, especially when it came to the newly-launched Prydwen. Without being tethered to a fixed base, Brotherhood influence could travel fast as the ship’s engines propelled it. The open sky was inviting, a grand new frontier. Those serving aboard would charter vertibirds to the surface, collecting tech and data, conscripting when applicable, and surveying the land for the promise of future headquarters and conquests. They were pioneers, setting the world back in place one township at a time.

Not that life on the Prydwen came without conditions. Quarters were tight and without reprieve. Every person had their assignments and most positions needed 24/7 oversight that kept crews in tight rotations. People came and went each day at the Citadel and beds were often empty. Not so in the cramped accommodations of the ship. Less space meant more forced interaction. Danse now knew more about each individual stationed on the Prydwen than he thought proper. To cope, many formed cliques, bonding to the point where they teetered on fraternization. Danse struggled with his views on the matter, having broken several such rules with Cutler. On the one hand, the Codex stated acceptable conduct quite clearly. On the other, regular informal socialization kept them all from climbing the walls and boosted morale. And if there was one thing the East Coast group found themselves in dire need of, it was fellowship.

So Danse tried his hand at socialization and cards. He paced himself through a single glass of whiskey while Teagan and Rico passed the rest of the bottle back and forth. Astlin stuck to beer. They all wore their uniforms, though Dance and Rico wore bomber jackets over theirs. Civvies were saved for leaves and those stationed aboard the airship enjoyed very few.

“What the hell is this one?” Knight Astlin asked. She leaned across the pile of caps, snatching one from the ante and holding it aloft. A blue star stood out vibrantly.

Proctor Teagan shrugged. Acting as dealer, he tapped the deck and commenced to shuffle it. “Came in on one of the western supply lines. Supposed to be rare as all get out.” Teagan dealt, flipping cards out in a circle. “Although, not so rare as the holy warrior gracing us with his presence,” he added, inclining his head towards Danse.

Danse hid his blush behind a tight smile. From her place on the floor, Haylen gave him a quick, reassuring wink before going back to work inputting digital files from the previous elder’s folly over handwritten reports. Danse stamped out the nub of his cigar. He lit a second and repocketed the lighter. “It isn’t so often I’m invited,” he cut back, quirking a brow as he puffed, trying his best to look sly yet nonchalant. John had been so good at playing it cool while his eyes sparkled playfully, betraying an indifferent façade. Danse had never gotten the hand of it.

Nervous laughter passed among the other three. “Officers have habit of shutting down our little get-togethers,” Teagan explained. “Would rather have us reading up on history or scrubbing the hull to pass the time.” The others sniggered or groaned lightheartedly at the thought.

“A tidy environment _is_ important,” Danse reminded. At the blank looks that followed, he stammered, “But I… I do appreciate being included. Thank you for inviting me, Proctor.” He turned his cards over. “Check.”

Astlin tossed one of her caps into the pile, along with the blue-starred one. For a while, Danse found it nice to lose himself in company and simple gaming strategy. Jokes flew, often at the expense of another player, but all in good fun. As the drinking continued, the talk devolved into gossip. Chat of rumors made Danse uncomfortable but, not wanting to be a spoilsport, he bit back a reprimand. He endured it up until Astlin said, a mischievous glint in her eye, “Danse has somebody he keeps up out in the Wastes.”

The glass of whiskey nearly dropped from his hand. Astlin wore a teasing smile, a bit too wide, aided by alcohol. Though Danse knew she meant it as good-natured ribbing, his stomach knotted to the point of aching.

Rico huffed a snort and tossed a few caps into the pot. “No fuck’s worth going out of bounds.”

Danse’s pulse quickened and heat raced up his back. The cigar smoldered, forgotten in his hand. He was acutely aware of Haylen’s presence and the secrets she’d been privy to. The need to escape assaulted his senses. He rose, setting his half-finished glass down. “I believe I’m done here,” he said, dropping his cigar into the glass. The surface of the liquid steamed for a moment before extinguishing. He turned and marched off.

The other soldiers booed and called out apologies, pleading that he stay. He didn’t, and instead climbed a set of stairs leading away from the rec area, batting down the sick feeling creeping up into his throat.

Footfalls pounded behind him. “Danse!” called Haylen.

He whirled, grip tight on the stair’s slanting metal railing. “How many people know?” he hissed between gritted teeth. His shoulders knotted almost painfully, hunching up around his ears. “How many know about… _him_?”

Haylen came to a stop a few rungs down. “Nothing came from me,” she insisted, concern tracing creases around her eyes.

Echoes of laughter knocked around the vast insides of the ship, hollow and mocking. Were they real or just figments in Danse’s mind? His eyes darted about, trying to catch sight of the scoffers. No one. Skin crawling, he shook his head. “Not here,” he whispered.

Together, they traversed up multiple flights of steps, taking hard angles, climbing higher and higher. Haylen followed him to the forefront of the deck, almost on his heels. At the door leading to the forecastle, he stopped and braced his hands against the frame, forcing deep breaths. The ship creaked slightly, wind skipping off the hull. Haylen waited patiently for him to calm. He’d put her in a terrible position, confiding in her when he should have kept to himself. 

If Danse had one true friend in the Brotherhood, it was Haylen. The two of them had relied on each other for years. Though he’d been her mentor, Haylen wasn’t cleared for field duty. She still hesitated to pull the trigger under fire. Currently, she served as a clinic and science wing assistant, most of her duties clerical. Her daughter had just started squire training at the Citadel. Very basic stuff – repetition of ideology, following instructions, leadership games – nothing too strenuous or dangerous at her age.

Danse envied the chance to grow up within the Brotherhood, being provided for at a young age and shown focus and discipline. Firm guidance might have changed his inclination towards men had he grown up in their midst instead of running wild out in the Wastes. He and Cutler would never have crossed the line, likely wouldn’t have met, and he could have refrained from be enticed by John. A simple preventive to his messy life choices.

“They like to gossip,” Haylen said to his back, her words soft and kind. “Being crammed in this can doesn’t help. Too much time on our hands and little privacy. All the times you took your ‘bird out… the flights were recorded. It’s because of your rank that no one even mentioned it.”

So _Invictus_ had been the one to betray him. She was a warbird and he’d treated her like a personal transport service. Guilt nudged at him. The Prydwen had only four docking ports. He’d left his vertibird at the Citadel, now a cargo ship for the requisition of supplies sent as tribute from local settlements. Had lancers really been so bored as to piece together his flight paths in order to gossip? Heat burned all over his skin at the idea that his brothers and sisters were that foolish and insensitive. 

Turning around, Danse slumped against the door, the metal cold, even through his jacket. Haylen shuffled a foot and shrugged, hands in two of her many pockets. “Mostly, people just want you to be happy. Nobody likes a commander in a bad mood. You found someone who’s willing to put up with all your withholding and mood swings and bullshit for years and still wants to be with you.” She shot him a grin. “C’mon, the guy’s a keeper.”

Danse felt as if a thunderclap crashed inside of him. Reverberations made his limbs tingle and he pressed palms against the door to keep from swaying. He looked past her, scanning for figures. They were alone. He opened his mouth. He closed it again. He shut his eyes and tried once more. “I am a moral, honorable man,” he insisted.

“I… Danse. No one said that you weren’t –”

“But I’ve done thing things that…” Cutler. John. He’d put them above the Codex, risking his career and his principles for what – the joys of physical sensation? To lie with men and pretend that was something stable? He was smarter and more well-disciplined than that. Weakness. He’d been tested and performed poorly. “This is not who I am. It’s simply something that I do. _Did_ ,” he amended. “It’s done. With him. John. It’s over.” 

“ _What_?” Haylen blurted emphatically, grabbing at his shoulder. “Why?”

He rolled his arm away from her. “You and I will not be having this discussion again. Drop this. That’s an order. It’s unprofessional and disrespectful.” Best to kill the past and all traces of it. 

Haylen gave a startled jolt and made a face like she’d bitten into a rotten piece of punga. “Yes, Sir,” she snapped in an acidic tone. She whipped around and stomped down the stairs, melding into the shadows of the ship’s belly.

Fingers frantically searched for the handle and, once found, Danse barged onto the forecastle. The heavy steel door rattled in its frame before swinging shut behind him. Wind was always concern on the prow. It whipped through his hair, tugging at his jacket. The rolling mountains of Appalachia, illuminated by moonlight and the ever-green glow of irradiated craters, tumbled across the territory, their blunted tips reaching for the moon.

Danse strode to the foremost portion of the forecastle. He raised his arms and held onto the top of the curving steel loop that secured the ship’s rigging, stretching his broad back. He remained in that position for a few minutes, looking but not seeing. Without a doubt, he made a series of errors if his life. Haylen was a good friend who encouraged him and kept his secrets. She didn’t deserve the brusqueness he’d delivered. But she knew too much, and now he’d have to keep her at arm’s length. He’d never get his Star or become Head Paladin if rumors sprang up like weeds. Pushing people away was necessary. His troops needed a clear-headed leader, not some heartsick failure.

He wasn’t a fool – he knew he’d done a poor job of extracting himself from John. He’d longed for a natural conclusion to their relationship, where neither of them had to be the villain. It wasn’t more than Danse could stand. John could hate him, that was fine, as now they were both safe and free. In the end, he’d done a kindness. Never again would Danse be tempted, luring him away from his true calling. If that meant a life of abstinence and loneliness, so be it. Acceptable for the position he held and the triumph he was meant to bring to the Brotherhood.

Nausea swelled in his stomach as he considered what he’d giving up to follow his calling. It was right. In his soul, he knew it was right. For the good of all, he had to deaden his heart. He might as well be a machine, inhuman and without sympathy. Yet one man’s sentiment did not trump the needs of a vast army, of the future or of the people that would live to see it form. Everything was shifting, rebuilding, new leaders making plays for control. Soon, the entire world would change, and he’d be there to see it. _Mankind, redefined_ , something at the back of his mind reminded _._ Danse frowned, trying to recall where he’d heard the phrase.

He reached into an inner pocket of his jacket and unfolded bent photo stock. He swallowed, reviewing the image, a black and white reminder of better days. John had been elated to discover how to use the camera. There had been only one shot remaining. In the frame, John wore his hair loose, curls tumbling into his face, mouth wide, caught in a laugh. One arm was extended, positioning the camera. The other was around the neck of dark-haired man. Danse’s eyes were closed in the photo but his smile was genuine.

Danse pulled the lighter from his pocket. He flicked it on, tilting the flame to lick at his own image until it caught. Paper bubbled and burned. He held the photo until it was nearly engulfed. Danse opened his fingers, letting the gust take it from his hand. In less than a moment it was gone, a tiny dot of orange whirling off into the night, taking any memories and emotion he had with it.


	6. Battleborn

DANSE

Calhoun County, MI

October 15th, 2288

Fried electric circuits popped within the dash as Danse threw himself by John’s side. The ghoul’s glowing body cast enough light to see by. A metal loop had been soldered to the galley floor, a series of short chains attached to it. John lay beside it, Wrists and ankles bound by heavy cuffs. Folded in on himself, he made a miserable ball. Danse put a hand on his shoulder and shook him. “John. Can you stand?”

Wracked with tremors, John was barely awake. “… don’t wanna.”

“Well, that’s too bad.” At any moment, the ‘bird could explode. Danse spun and went to the slumped form in the cockpit, patting it down, checking all pockets. No keys. He tore outside and pawed at the body of the first man. A heavy ring of keys sat in a pocket. Danse hurried back with them and set to work opening the cuffs. His sweaty hands fumbled with the keys, trying them all until he found the right one. With John untethered, Danse hauled him up and dragged him out of the cabin.

Leaning heavily on Danse, John winced and dropped his head. “Holy shit. Feels like someone’s hammering spikes through my teeth.”

Danse made sure to put an entire building – some bodega with a peeling hot dog advertisement – between them and the ‘bird before settling John and himself to the ground. As the rush of battle faded and his grit drained, he swung the Brotherhood pack forward. Rifling through it, he procured a sealed can of water and forced John to drink it. The ghoul immediately vomited it straight up. “Perfect,” John mumbled, coughing as he slumped with his back to a wall. “I’m strung out,” he recognized, closing his eyes.

Upending the bag, Danse searched for Med-X or Slasher, anything to combat John’s illness or, at least, slow it. All he found were anti-radiation drugs. “John, when those men took you, did they confiscate your chems?” If they were still aboard the ‘bird, Danse would risk going to get them, nor could he take the time to properly check the bodies for identification.

Weakly, John shook his head. “Just a couple’a ‘Tats. Fuckers ate ‘em up while flying, laughing at me.” He spat bile and continued, “They talked like they knew about me. Not who I am, but what I am. Like they weren’t even surprised.” He squirmed. “Fuck, I gotta piss. Help me?”

Danse did, arms looped under John’s armpits. When done, they sank right back down. Danse tore into one of the pack’s MREs. When offered a ration, John turned away. The gleaming ghoul rocked back and forth as Danse chewed on the chalky block, thinking. Overcoming a complication from chem use – he had no training in the subject. In rare cases where soldiers had fallen prey to addictions, they’d been swiftly and quietly dealt with by scribes and medical personnel.

Stuffing the last of the ration into his mouth, Danse righted the pack and stood, pulling John up with him. “Come on. We need to get you help.” Together, they stumbled back towards the ’bird Danse had stolen. Each step away from the cooling bodies put distance between them and the secret behind who those men were. Whoever they represented knew about John and his abilities. John was a wanted man with a bounty on his head. The Commonwealth was no longer safe for him. Danse wrestled with what to do as he helped John limp to the Brotherhood craft.

A clamor of noise caused Danse to hunker down behind the Calhoun post office. He eased around a corner to find six raiders swarming the Brotherhood craft. By moonlight, two were tugging the seats out while another tried to pry the propellers off. The others slunk about, patrolling with guns at the ready.

The presence of raiders meant chems and the chance to obtain a time-buying hit of something for John. But going in guns-blazing wasn’t an option. Danse didn’t have the reserve ammo to reclaim the craft, nor the reserve energy. But where to go? John wouldn’t survive a long trek back to the Commonwealth. Between the withdrawal and his heightened state of stress, he’d be dead or feral within days.

Exhaustion toyed with Danse’s senses. He wanted to lay down and sleep, find a solution in the morning. But John was vulnerable and needed him sharp. Danse wracked his brain to recall if he’d passed over nearby settlements during the airborne chase. He’s didn’t remember any. Still, townships dotted the Wastes, some sizable cities, some consisting of single families. Even if they didn’t have a doctor, surely one would be rife with chems. If Danse had to trade _Righteous Authority_ for enough drugs to get John safely away from harm, he’d gladly make that choice.

“New plan,” said Danse, forcing determination into his voice. He pulled a complaining John back up, and they started in a new direction. “We’re going to look for help.”

“Wait, wait!” John clung to him, a crazed look on his face “Why? Those raiders’ll have chems! We just… gotta take ‘em.”

“John, I can’t fight a volley of raiders to steal their drugs. Physically, I just can’t. We’ll have to look elsewhere.”

For a moment it seemed like John would make a stand, an argument building behind his green eyes. Then he shuddered and gagged, dry retching. He squeezed his eyes closed and leaned into Danse. “Fine. Let’s go.”

They left the vertibird behind and journeyed into a sparser area of town will fewer, low-profile buildings and long stretches of open highway. After a mile or so, Danse dragging John along, they found themselves in a suburban area, houses that had once displayed fine lawns far back from the street. As they walked the strange new county looking for farmsteads and municipals, scanning the night for dots of firelight and listening for the sound of generators, John’s difficulty was prevalent. He was foggy and clumsy. Small things like twigs and patches of long dead grass made him trip. Occasionally, Danse left him leaning against a fence to ransack a house, searching for any chems to get them by. None were found. The raiders occupying the town must have done a wide sweep long ago. After each search, Danse would exit and drag a shaking John to his feet again. 

The residential area gave way to a dirt road and an open expanse of ranches and farmland. Staring out at the wide, vacant countryside, Danse began to feel he’d made a mistake, going the wrong way and dooming them both. That worry increased a thousand-fold when he spotted a Brotherhood emblem spray-painted on the side of a barn. There was a base in the area. He stopped and stared at the logo, alarm ringing in his brain, trying to decipher a new course of action.

John slid from his arms and refused to get up. Shivering and weak, he said, “I’m tired, Dan. I don’t wanna do this anymore. Can I be done now? Is that alright? I’m just… tired.”

Fear funneled straight through Danse’s stomach. John’s glassy eyes frightened him. “Don’t you dare talk like that,” Danse scolded. He eased out of the pack and slipped it over John’s shoulders. With a great heft, he got John off the ground and onto his back, carrying him like a father would a child, arms around John’s thighs as the ghoul held a loose grip around his neck. For someone of Danse’s strength, John’s weight was usually negligible, but the long trip was taking its toll and he struggled to maintain an easy pace. Each step caused dull pain to flare in Danse’s knees, making him to fear they would buckle and send both he and John to the ground. He drew from desperation and kept going.

Dirt changed to shattered asphalt underfoot as dawn broke over a wide field of withered fruit trees. Danse struggled past a sign welcoming him to Battle Creek, Michigan. Another Brotherhood emblem had been painted over it. The hours of strain had Danse’s lower back screaming. Regardless, with little choice, he kept on.

Their journey came to an abrupt halt when John whispered in Danse’s ear, “I’m cold.”

The first real burst of panic exploded into Danse’s mind. Fever. Immediately, he lowered John to the ground. The ghoul was burning up, heat rolling off him. It wasn’t radiation – Danse’s skin didn’t blister or burn – but he knew enough about ghouls for Fahrenheit to never chide him again. Fever. What might be a simple increase of temperature in any human could drive a ghoul to death in hours or force a feral turn.

John hugged himself, trying to stay warm despite his fever. “I want it over,” he declared, wincing and wavering like he was dizzy. “I don’t wanna do this. I can’t be here. I just wanna be dead.”

“No, you don’t.” Danse said, kneeling at John’s level. What a cowardly thing for John to say. “I understand that you’re suffering right now. It’s only temporary.”

“Dan… stop. Just stop.” John forced brilliant green eyes open and locked gazes with him. “It’s time.”

Chills shot down Danse’s back. “No. It’s not,” he adamantly argued. “We’ll find something to fight the fever. Chems. Meds. Someone will be –”

A shaky breath blasted from John’s lungs. “Dan, please. We’re not gonna find anything.” He slumped in defeat. “You promised me,” he mumbled. “You promised you’d do it.” He eased down onto the road, curled into a fetal position and shut his eyes. 

Danse recalled the taste of salt spray and guilt on the boat back from Far Harbor where they’d made this pact. The common phrase ‘ _put a ghoul out of its misery’_ was spoken often enough in the Brotherhood. Watching John suffer made Danse truly weigh the expression as a possibility. Not once had he felt more despondent, not sitting in the Bravo bunker waiting for death, not lost on the island in Far Harbor, never. They’d been planning for this. It was Danse’s duty to end John’s life before he turned. Was he to place the muzzle of his rifle against John’s temple here, in the middle of Nowhere America, and leave his glowing body to rot roadside?

Tears pressed against the inside of Danse’s eyelids. “I’m not ready.” A sick feeling fluttered up from his stomach and he gently shook the ghoul. John didn’t respond, his breathing shallow. He burned hot to the touch. “John!” Danse shouted, teardrops breaking free. “John! I’m not ready!” He shook John’s shoulder hard enough to make his head loll. The ghoul writhed, bemoaning low, pitiful sounds in his stupor, words not fully reaching the surface. Jade light beneath his skin pulsed in slow, irregular beats.

Danse rose and, clutching his laser close, paced in a tight circle around John. Out of time and options, he had never felt more helpless. A way out shoved at him, laying a course of action. The Brotherhood was nearby. He could signal for a transport, but the soldiers would never admit him – a known traitor – or a ghoul aboard.

He’d have to kill the crew. Though he’d neglected to pull the trigger on the lancer back at the Fens, he wouldn’t have that luxury again. Word may have already spread that he was alive and at large. If there was any salvageable piece of Danse’s soul left, it would die with the crew. Still… a negligible cost for John’s life.

The signal grenade sat in a pocket on the side of the pack. Danse retrieved it, cracked it open to activate it, and tossed it overhand into a nearby orchard. It smoldered for a full moments before filling daybreak with a crimson plume of smoke. He crouched, readying his laser rifle amongst roadside shrubbery. The weapon charged, a mild humming noise droning from it. He held it up in front of him, checking the sight. Waiting, he brushed the wetness on his face away.

After an eternity, a steady beating of propeller blades cut through the stillness of morning. Like a descending angel, a vertibird broke through thin cloud cover and lowered to earth. It circled as it dipped, surveying the area. No lancer wanted to land straight down amid live fire. Something flashed on the tail section as the craft rotated – the Brotherhood logo stamped in white with more beneath it. At 100 meters out, Danse couldn’t decipher the rest.

Wheels extended, and the ‘bird landed softly in the orchard. The blades slowed to a lazy whir and stilled. Someone in a black uniform appeared, stepping out of the cabin. “Soldier? Call out. Are you in need?” It was a woman. An officer, judging by the black uniform, and no fool. The long poke of a sniper rifle proceeded her as she exited the craft looking for movement.

Danse was in need. He stood, laser tight to his body. “Here,” he called, queasy. Killing an officer. He’d wear that shame forever without respite.

She turned in his direction, vigilant as she neared. Her rifle stayed up. She looked about Danse’s age with dark, close-cropped hair, strands longer on top. There was no doubt she saw he was armed and out of dress, looking like a drifter accompanied by a glowing body the lay in the road. “State your business, stranger,” she said. “Where’d you get that signal grenade?”

Finger on the trigger, Danse was about to end her when additional movement in the ‘bird drew his attention. A tall figure in a duster, face hidden, hopped out and stood like a wall of shadow at the officer’s back. One of its hands touched something near its hip. A weapon, no doubt. Likely automatic. This would be messier that Danse intended.

Danse made one last play at diplomacy. “I’m a paladin,” he announced. “There’s been a medical emergency and I need to commandeer your vertibird.”

“What’s your name, Paladin?”

Exhaustion dumped Danse into a pit. He didn’t care anymore. He was dammed regardless. “Danse,” he answered, bracing for the firefight about to occur.

An unexpected pause ate through the air. The officer shoulder her rifle. “Oh. You’re that guy. Well, you look like you’re about to keel over. Bring your friend and hop aboard.”

Dumbstruck, Danse held still, holding his breath. The person in the duster stepped back and disappeared into the veribird’s cockpit.

The officer sighed and walked straight up to him. Her face was a roadmap of scars, cutting from one side to the other and up and down. She frowned down at John, a crease rippling across her forehead. “Is that a ghoul? Looks like it. Here, let me help.” She stooped and took hold of John’s ankles.

Danse had to shake himself to get moving. He swung his rifle to his back and sank down to take John’s shoulders. Stunned, he stammered, “W-who are you?”

“I’m Knight-Captain Christine Royce. Let’s just say I’m in charge out here.” They lifted John and started for the ‘bird. “Looks like you’ve had a long journey, Paladin,” she said as they shuffled through the orchard, avoiding twisted roots and deadfall.

“I… wouldn’t know where to begin.”

“Well, it’ll be a short flight. Condense it,” she entreated.

As they neared the craft, Danse saw what was written on the tail. _Battleborn_ , it read in proud gold lettering.


	7. No Comment

JOHN

Goodneighbor, MA

September 17th, 2282

The cannister of dog food came down with a satisfying thump, crushing a handful of Mentats beneath it. Canned dog food was the best use for this, heavier than other cans. John rotated the can back and forth, still delivering pressure, pulverizing the tablets to a fine powder. Disposing of the can, he brushed the powder into a neat row on the low coffee table. After tying his hair back, he lowered his head and inhaled the line. He reeled back with a jerk, his nasal passage burning. It felt like he’d been shot between the eyes. He held still for a moment before breath burst from his lungs. Immediate sensation crawled over his skin, hazy lights became tight dots of amber, and thought rushed through his head so fast he wished he’d brought a pen. If he had, he’d brush the ornate rug out of the way to expose cement flooring and scribble equations and prose right there. His fingers moved in the air, tracing the characters, chasing their meaning and answers. The chems, along with countless shots of alcohol, formed a warm ball in John’s stomach. He closed his eyes and smiled.

_Damn. This is nice._

“John, you’re up.”

Shaken from his dome of pleasure, he blinked. He sat on the floor as part of a circle consisting of some folks he knew and others he didn’t. They traded Jet inhalers and needles back and forth. Chatter and tinny radio music drifted in from the bar area of the Third Rail. Here in the VIP section, with its plush, jewel-toned upholstery, chandeliered lighting and fine wooden furniture, it was hard not to feel untouchable. The young, elite, and affluent congregated to Goodneighbor on a regular basis. The Black twins, Nelson Latimer, and a few others all wore their finest, clean suits and short dresses. Marowski’s rules, not theirs. The operator of the Rail wanted to keep a sexy, nubile vibe to the joint. Vic didn’t give two shits about outward appearance so long as Marowski kept the town flush with caps, but those paying admittance enjoyed gawking at the corrupted youth of Boston’s elite families.

John’s appearance had seen better days. His hair was stringy and dirty, his curls limp. More stains covered his clothing than was technically permitted, but his way with words and his heritage – along with knowing the right pockets to dump caps into – meant he rarely heard the word _no_. The group had been spinning a pistol like a bottle, the muzzle now pointed at John. He crawled forward on his hands to share a filthy kiss with a guy he didn’t know, all tongue and no shame, the sharpness of the Mentats still whistling through his system. The group catcalled in approval.

Lips still tingling, John took his turn spinning the pistol. It twirled, barrel, grip, barrel, grip, until it pointed at Eliza Roberts. The daughter of Diamond City’s mayor was too done up for the occasion and the little ghoul sat in a cloud of fluffy petticoats. Her brown wig of doll-like curls bounced as she realized she’d been selected, gray eyes widening. It was no secret that she’d harbored a girlish crush on John for years. Intoxication stealing his suave nature, he winked lewdly at her. She gulped as they neared and took his face in her dainty hands. The effect was… odd, too intimate for this type of setup. Their kiss was sweet, almost chaste, but she lingered close enough to share breaths until the others called for the game to continue. She was far less enamored when her next partner was Billy Black.

A restless itch traveled down John’s spine. The intense focus of the Mentats hammered home a bored sense of tedium. He felt pinned, stagnant, smothered by monotony. He lived with most of these people, them looking down on his Field home from their place in the Stands. The Rail. The Rexford. The long walk between them and Diamond City. It was a cycle, a loop that he’d found himself trapped in, debauchery filling the void that had become his life.

If he wasn’t careful, he was about to lose his position with Diamond City Treasury. Not that he wouldn’t deserve it – he hadn’t touched a report since returning from Hartford. It was a matter of time before shopkeepers went to the Council, frantic that their ledgers were months behind. Any idiot could stand on a street corner and hawk wares, but it was rare that any of them knew simple math, let alone how to read line items. Living at Home Plate had once been an easy place to drop off daily sales figures and shipment details. Now, most vendors took their receipts directly to the mayoral office, wary of catching John in one of his moods, strung out on chems or belligerently drunk. _If you insist on digging your own grave, you’d better lie in it_ , John’s brother warned. _I will not be cajoled into pulling you out._

Placing a hand on the coffee table to steady him, John stood. His knees wobbled before locking in position. Too much thought curtesy of the chems. He needed air and space. Stumbling out of the VIP room, a hand trailing the wall to steady him, he passed through the haze of noise and cigarette smoke clogging the bar. Drunk and high, he fit right in with the rest of the patrons. Vic’s guys had a few tables to themselves, gambling and breaking glasses when they felt gipped. The whores made their rounds, leaning too far over prospective clients, hands working down trousers. Two rough-looking guys started a shoving match which quickly ended when one of them drove a knife into the other’s ribs.

John had to concentrate on climbing the stars leading out of the bar, each step heavy and carefully placed. A hand touched his back and he mis-stepped, nearly falling. He put his back to the brick wall and blinked slowly at Eliza Roberts. “John, are you okay?” she asked, faded grey eyes concerned. She didn’t get hopped up on substances like the rest of Diamond City’s collective youth. She wasn’t young, John had to remind himself. She’d seen picture shows and gone to things called _sock hops_ and _soda shops_ back before the bombs fell. She was kind and nice, even if she were a silly teenage girl forever enthralled by the idea of romance. Not her fault - her hormones stopped evolving during her ghoulification, trapped her in a type of stunted adolescence.

A wealth of pain welled up from within, bringing an impetuous urge along with it. John looped an arm around Eliza’s waist and allowed her to help him up the stairs. This was a bad idea. A terrible idea. But if nothing mattered – and nothing did – he wasn’t responsible for his actions. The world had been spinning out of control long before he’d been birthed into it.

At the top of the stairs, he found his footing and yanked Eliza sideways. He kicked a plastic, folding caution sign to block the doorway of mens’ restroom - the Rail’s universal notice for _occupied_ – and pulled her inside. As she blinked at him in surprise, he sank fingers into the ripples coating the curves of her body, fabric bunching beneath his grip. John lifted her small body and set her on the lip of a sink. Eliza shimmied the hem of her dress up above her knees and reached for him, wrapping thin legs around his hips. They didn’t say anything. It had been a while since John had engaged in sex with a woman, but he still remembered where all the parts were. 

In the back of his mind, he knew this filthy bathroom hookup had less to do with Eliza and more to do with overwhelming anger at Danse. His body moved with harder, selfish thrusts as he hovered in the past. John had been the good guy, offering Danse a way out of his indentured servitude. They could have been a family, relying on each other instead of superiors and city councils. John knew Danse well enough to know that the man needed a vow, needed to make a promise that he took deadly serious to serve as framework for his conduct. Their marriage could have been just that. They could have taken to the Wastes and done anything, been anything, they pleased. It could have been them, together, facing any obstacle that came their way, trading strength, love, and commitment no matter what.

Well, Christ. Fuck that asshole and all the time John had wasted thinking of him. He hammered along, squeezing too hard at Eliza’s hips.

It didn’t take long for John to finish. He hung his head, heart thudding in his chest, Eliza’s arms still tight around his shoulders. Avoiding eye contact, he did up his pants. He knew this had been immoral. It felt wrong. It felt awful. It felt exactly the way John deserved to feel.

Eliza was exceptionally quiet. After fluffing her dress, making sure she still looked presentable, she retreated downstairs to the VIP room, wrinkled fingertips brushing his wrist as she went. John lit a cigarette and left the Rail, shoving his way out the front door. The evening stench of Goodneighbor gutters greeted him. He picked his way out of town, careful to avoid eye contact with any of Vic’s cronies lingering streetside. The gatekeep gave his weapon back, a lever-action rifle that was slow as hell to reload. Once out in the ruins, he followed his usual path home, picking through empty diners and lobbies, sticking to the quiet places, careful to listen for the rabble of mutant activity. The chem affects left him long before the alcohol did, leaving him with a slight wobble and irritable disposition. He felt like shit, which was normal these days, too much time spent punishing his body and mind. No matter what substance he took or how much of it, he never managed to achieve the blank slate he desperately craved.

Nearly home, dogs yapped in the Diamond City junkyard, their shapes darting about in the night, betraying John’s presence. The noise drew a few members of the guard over, who yelled at both the dogs and John, berating him for breaking curfew and swearing to report him. John flashed both middle fingers and slipped inside the Wall. It had to be close to 2:00 AM and the walkways were empty. With the election looming six weeks away, posters toting _Mankind for McDonough_ and _Wiseman – the Smart Choice_ plastered the city. John signed and tromped his way past them, skin crawling. Caught between his brother and his good friend, he had a bad feeling about the upcoming vote.

“John McDonough!” someone shouted as he neared the marketplace.

He whipped his head around to spot a figure jumping out of a side alley. Flashes of light popped in rapid succession, blinding him. He threw a hand up in defense, blocking the glare. “What in fuck’s sake –”

“Word is, you’ve been spending a lot of time outside the Commonwealth,” a woman said. “Care to comment on your whereabouts?”

His eyes adjusted, and the figure became somewhat familiar. John had been a haze since Hartford, and he hadn’t taken the time to learn of the new people moving into the Field. The light flashes came from a camera, the dark-haired woman snapping picture after picture of him, yanking each snapshot from the camera’s mouth as it slid out. What the hell was her name? Polly, or some crap like that. Had a kid sister and lived in the drifter part of town. “Fuck off, little girl,” he growled, confounded as to why she’d chose to photograph him.

The woman gave a haughty _humf_ and lowered the camera. “You sure about that? Don’t wanna try and make a statement?”

“Go home, lady. It’s late,” John sneered as he stuffed hands in his pockets and turned away.

“Your funeral,” she called to his back.

John dismissed the encounter as the cherry atop an evening of odd occurrences. At the door to Home Plate he struggled with his key longer than he cared to admit, troubled nerves and threads of substances impacting his focus. Finally slipping the key in and turning it, he shouldered into his dark house eager to drop into bed.

The living room light flicked on. John froze in the doorway as Guy stood up from the flat-cushioned couch. Still dressed in his dapper daywear, a visit from Guy was never a treat. With increasing unease, John stepped inside and softly closed the door behind him. “Hey?” he said with suspicion as he pocketed his key. John was certain he reeked of smoke, booze, chems and sex. He knew he should feel bad about being caught in this state, but he didn’t.

“John,” Guy began, in a tone that smacked of disappointment. He removed his hat and held it, staring down at the inner lining. The shine of scalp arced over his head, retreating into a receding hairline. “You know I’ve always looked out for you, right?”

John hung his rifle strap from a peg on the wall. “Is that what you call it?” Since their parents died, John had lived mostly on his own. Access to his family funds had gotten him by. As for companionship and guidance… well, he never relied on Guy for that. Who John was had largely been formed by his relationships with Mal, Garrett and Danse.

“Little brother,” Guy tried again, setting the hat aside. He rubbed his fleshy chins with a thoughtful hand as if picking careful wording. “We’re about to begin a new chapter of our lives. And I need you to stand with me. I need compliance, not opposition.”

John snorted and bent to untie his shoes. Slowed by his bender, the task was difficult. “This is about the election, not me. You don’t give a heap of brahmin shit about what I do.”

“You’re a spoiled, entitled brat, John. I’m your family, and I need you.”

Rising, his shoes trailing laces, John spat, “You need me to what? Prop you up on my shoulders? Cause I don’t think I’ve got the lower back strength to heft all of you in one go.”

The dirty lampshade tossed dark spots over Guy’s reddening face. He flung a hand at John, spouting, “I can’t have you doing this. Sneaking out, coming home high and disheveled. People are going to talk if they don’t already. Think of the impression that gives.”

“I make you look bad.” John couldn’t help but sneer. Guy didn’t want his help. He wanted to control John, to make him a puppet used for bullshit propaganda. Fat fucking chance.

“You’re goddamned right you do!” Guy bellowed, fists forming at his sides. “I can’t babysit you at all hours!” He paused, unblinking. After a cough and the loosening his tie, he continued at a lower volume. “I’m no fool. You have no intention to abide by the council’s rules. But my ascension helps us both. As mayor, I can help you. You’ve been dabbling with a type of _Constitution_ for years. If you want even some semblance of that to take shape, you’ll need the assistance of someone in power. You think Wiseman, rotting corpse that he is, will give you that chance? Politics are about leverage, favors and power. You help me, and I can use all the influence I have to help you.”

John folded arms across his chest in defiance. “Wiseman ain’t like that. He’s my friend. He’ll help me just cause, no strings attached.”

Wrestling to calm himself, Guy closed his eyes and sucked air in through his nose. “But he isn’t blood.” Guy gave John a gentle stare and spoke softly. “John, it’s you and me. We’re all we have. I want you to succeed, even if you don’t believe me. I want to see you flourish. Don’t you want the same for me? Isn’t that why you moved here – so we could work together to do better?”

John felt like an ass. He’d done a lot of thoughtless, impulsive things lately. On some level, he pitied Guy, who conducted his life within a series of strict boundaries. John’s life had been filled with wild freedoms Guy had never experienced. He had to be thankful that Guy hadn’t once cut him off from family funds, leaving him destitute in the Wastes. “Sorry, bro… I… know you want big things. I get that I’m not helping.”

Guy’s next words stabbed John to the core. “You can help by settling down and stop being a fool. Put an end to all the wandering and the questionable activity. Get married, have children and just… be happy being normal. It doesn’t have to be any more complicated than that.”

Laughter bubbled up John’s throat. Despite Guy’s shocked and confused look, it grew, making John’s body shake as the laughter grew to a frenzied height. John’s eyes teared up and spilled over as he cackled, spinning into hysteria. It was hard to tell if he was still laughing or crying, but as tears dripped down his chin and he sank to his knees, John realized how gullible and stupid he’d been.

Even with John laughing last, Danse had won, delivering the final blow. John finally understood the absurdity of thinking marriage could be any sort of bandage for their broken relationship. Their entire courtship had been lust and escape, nothing more. Guy was right. John was a fool. He hated himself for his silly sentimentality, for thinking he was more important to someone than he was. John McDonough didn’t deserve happiness. He didn’t deserve anything. If the only purpose he served was to help his brother better Diamond City and, by proxy, the Commonwealth, hell, it was the least he could do for the one person who hadn’t given up on him.

“Sure, Guy,” John said between gulps of air. He wiped at the dampness on his face. “You’re my big brother. Course I’ve got you.”

Maybe it was a trick of the light, but Guy’s answering smile cut ear-to-ear.


	8. The Circle

DANSE

Bunker Whiskey, MI

October 16th, 2288

The vertibird touched down in the courtyard of a two-leveled motel. A tall, splintered, wooden sign read _Luxury Roadside Accommodations_. The name was misleading. Pitted and crumbling roofs topped the L-shaped structure and the walls were liberally painted with crawling teal moss. Roads leading to and from sloped down a hill, the motel occupying high ground. Car hoods had been sunk into pathways, serving as steppingstones between the main building and a series of tented or hastily erected shelters, keeping feet from sinking into damp Michigan soil. A ring of tipped cars, farm equipment, concrete barriers and chain-link fencing formed a wide perimeter around the area. What might have been two turrets aiming down a hill passed by too fast for Danse to verify.

“Welcome to Bunker Whiskey,” Royce said from her seat in a navigator’s chair. “Though, _bunker_ is a relative term.”

They hadn’t been in the air for more than twenty minutes, but it had felt a lifetime as Danse held an unconscious John in his lap. Royce had radioed ahead while the dark, quiet stranger in the duster piloted the craft, keen eyes on the sky, never once turning to gawk at the glowing ghoul or the treasonous synth that accompanied him. The man didn’t look Brotherhood, probably some type of mercenary though Danse hasn’t wasted much time observing him. The silent man brought the craft down with ease, leading Danse to wonder how he’d been trained given that he wasn’t a lancer.

Figures gathered, with and without armor, to watch the ‘bird land. No flags flew, no mark of insignia denoting Brotherhood occupation. Staring out the cabin, Danse saw snipers on the rooftops, the glint from their scopes flashing as they tracked the swell of activity around _Battleborn_. Propellers swished to a stop and Royce exited the craft first, signaling an all-clear to the snipers. At her insistence, Danse came next, carrying John in his arms. The strange man stayed with the ‘bird. Power armored figures hung back, some robed scribes amongst them, their presence making Danse’s stomach clench as he braced himself for a bullet. He kept at Royce’s heels as she led the way to one of the motel’s first-floor rooms.

A tall man with hair so pale it shone nearly pearl-white met them at the doorway, pulling a tarp drape aside. He wore a simple lab coat instead of scribe robes and his brows soared upwards as his eyes raked over John. Then a grim expression twisted a corner of his mouth down. “I don’t claim to be a biophysicist,” he curtly said, pushing glasses up his nose, “so forgive me if I stumble my way around the treatment of ghouls. Particularly the glowing variety. I’ll, well, do my best.” 

Despite tired nerves grating, Danse calmly stated, “His name is John. He has a high fever due to chem withdrawal and lost responsiveness about a half-hour ago.”

The white-haired man clicked his tongue. “Treating a junkie? Huh. Reminds me of the old days,” he said with a wistful air.

“Arcade,” Royce warned, pushing past him. “We’ve talked about your talking.”

The man shut his mouth and stepped aside, allowing admittance. Inside, illuminated by a few bare bulbs powered by copper wiring that ran along the walls and ceiling, Danse found himself in a vacant clinic. The room had once been a reception area or lobby and its wide space was lined with cots, some with draped sheet partitions. A half-moon shaded reception desk sat in the center of the room. Rolling steel tables full of medical tools and apparatus were parked nearby, topped with rows of vials and syringes. Lockers and heavy metal chests sat on the floor, secreting away additional equipment. There were no monitors or intricate tech, just a standard field hospital. The pale man, Arcade, apparently a doctor, plucked a bottle from one of the trolleys and tossed it to Royce. “Precautions,” he said. The red plastic and white label marked it as Rad-X. Royce downed a few.

There was nothing distinctly Brotherhood about this man either, leading an odd sense of disquiet to multiply in Danse as he settled John atop one of the cots. He and Arcade peeled John’s leather jacket off, exposing bare, glowing arms. John’s head turned side-to-side, a low mumble in his throat, but he didn’t fully stir. Danse stepped back and allowed the doctor to work, watching as he took a few readings before injecting drug after drug. If John were conscious, he’d certainly find the process amusing. “I need irradiated water,” Arcade told Royce over his shoulder. “Some of that lakeside sludge wouldn’t hurt, either.”

Royce jerked a nod. “I’ll ask around.” She gave Danse a pat on the back and headed outside. The tarp swung closed behind her.

“How is he?” Danse asked, shuffling, feeling stagnant and useless.

“Well, his insides are cooking, so there’s that matter,” said Arcade, checking blood pressure with a cuff and bulb. “As far as I know, the radiation makes them burn hot. So, it makes sense that a fever would send them over the edge.” Jotting notes onto a clipboard, he shrugged. “Probably why they didn’t inherit the Earth.” He hooked John up to a bag of saline hanging above the bed. “A glowing one living through centuries just to throw his live away on chems. Seems incredibly wasteful,” he added, shaking his head.

Danse bristled. “He didn’t… John’s only been a ghoul for around six years.”

Arcade hummed and pulled a penlight from his lab coat pocket. Lifting John’s eyelid, he peered at a brilliant green eye. “Got caught point blank in a nuke explosion?”

Several seconds ticked by as Danse hesitated. If it made the difference in saving John’s life, he’d part with a few secrets. “No. He did this to himself. Some type of injection. I don’t know what it was.”

The doctor’s posture abruptly changed, becoming tense lines and caution. “That so?” he asked in a neutral voice. His throat contracted in a swallow. “Anything else?”

Danse began to waver, listing faintly side-to-side, bones feeling heavy. His reserves were depleted. Glancing down at the slack, misshaped features of John’s face, Danse mumbled, “We’re supposed to get married.”

Arcade coughed and blinked rapidly. “It, um… looks like he’s lucky to have you,” he said in a rough attempt at decent bedside manner. 

Danse shook his head. “John McDonough has never been lucky.” Shucking his Minutemen denim, he placed it on a chair next to John’s leather jacket. He took a seat on the next cot over and when Arcade didn’t stop him, he lay down, nestling one arm behind his head.

Next he knew, John was awake and two armed soldiers in power armor had guns trained in the ghoul’s direction. The tarp leading out was open, Arcade in his coat framed in the doorway, the beginnings of dusk at his back. Well… _awake_ might have been too strong a word. John was active and trashing, pulling against the IV lead attached to him. His eyes were glazed, and his screeches sounded primal. Danse’s blood turned to ice.

Not a feral turn. Not now, here in the confides of a Brotherhood waystation. Danse slipped from his cot and approached John with outstretched hands. “John? John, it’s me. It’s Dan.”

John snorted through his nasal cavity and snarled, “No.” He hunched up into an agitated ball.

 _No?_ “John, it’s alright. We’re safe here.”

“Sir,” one of the armored units said. “Stand back.”

“Wait!” Danse implored, whipping around. “I know how to handle this. Just… step outside. He won’t escape. I promise.”

“You heard him,” said Arcade, stunning Danse with compliance. “Back it up, please.”

“Your funeral, _remnant_ ,” the other soldier grumbled. “Makes things easy.” Both stomped outside. Arcade hung by the doorway, one foot in and one foot out, eyes eagerly watching Danse.

Though Danse would have rather forgone an audience, he turned back to John. He’d spent months dragging John back up from the depths of madness and knew how to tread. “It’s me. You got sick and we’re trying to make you better.” Best to put things simply when he got like this.

A shudder ran through John. “Not safe,” he grunted in a scratchy voice. “Liar.”

John’s gruff answers gave Danse pause. “Why, John? What’s a lie?”

Fierce green eyes locked with Danse’s. “Not him. Dan’s gone.”

Danse’s stomach sank. “I… what do you mean gone?” 

“Know what this is,” John insisted, shifting around on the cot like a caged animal. “Don’t trust it. Fantasy. Another trip.” He sucked in a breath. Eyes squeezed closed, hiding the piercing shade of his eyes. “Left me in Hartford. My fault.”

Danse’s heart shattered. He eased forward, putting a palm on John’s shoulder. “No, John. No. Nothing was your fault. I’m here now. I won’t ever leave you again.” He kissed John’s head through his bandana. The heat rising off him warmed Danse’s face.

John shivered and blinked. “Dan?” he asked, eyes regaining some of their focus. He looked around, confused and disoriented. “Fuck. I don’t… I don’t know when this is.” He dropped his head into his hands.

Testing the springs, Danse crawled into the cot with him, wrapping John up in his arms. The bed creaked but held. He lay back, taking John with him. John’s skin still burned with fever but Danse held on anyway. It didn’t take long before they both returned to sleep.

Danse woke hooked up to fluids. Prodding the insertion point, he looked to John, who still slumbered beside him, relieved to find him present. Danse was often terrified of waking up alone, that John would have wandered out into the Wasteland during the night. Plenty of ghouls did that, John had explained, when they knew their time was up. It was almost customary. All of this, the drugs, the extra care and attention, was extraneous. And now John seemed to be losing grasp on linear time. Perhaps Danse could blame the fever… but maybe he couldn’t.

Lost in thought, Danse’s fingers grazed the catheter in his arm again. He was granted a fright when someone said, “I wasn’t certain if your… _kind_ … needed that, but better to ask forgiveness than permission, I suppose.” 

There was Arcade, looking over his shoulder as he attended to another patient. His pale skin and hair reflected morning light that filtered through the open doorway, creating a halo around him. The part in his hair was on a different side than before, proof that he’d left and bathed at some point.

In his stiff, sweat-dried clothes, Danse was envious. Due to the IV, he felt marginally better, even as hunger gnawed a pit in his gut. He ran a slow trail down John’s exposed, glowing arm. A tickle at the back of his throat told him he was overdue for a system flush of Rad-Away. “Rad meds?” he inquired in a low voice that wouldn’t disturb John.

“The gray locker with the biohazard label,” Arcade answered. “I think the sticker was meant to be a joke.”

After easing away from John, Danse pulled the needle from his arm, putting pressure on the puncture with a thumb. He crossed to the gray locker and rifled through it. With a pack of Rad-Away in hand, he sat on the chair containing both his and John’s jackets and dosed himself.

Waiting for the bag to empty, his gaze fell on the man Arcade was treating. He was a formidable man with a stern expression, bare arms, coal-dark skin, and thick locks of hair so twisted they looked like short ropes. The hem of a heavy duster nearly grazed the floor. His nose was almost entirely black and peeling blisters covered the lower half of his face. Upon second glance, a few widening fissures could be seen cracking the skin of his muscular arms. It was apparent that this man was slowly going ghoul.

Footsteps drew Danse’s attention to the entry. Royce emerged from the doorway and gave a nod to both Arcade and the man he was treating. Her eyes found Danse and she said, “Good. You’re up. Let’s step outside. Your man is in the capable hands of our man.”

Danse stood and discarded the Rad-Away. He cast one last lingering glance at John before his gaze brushed over the other two men. The one with the twisted hair lifted a breathing mask over his face, obscuring the radiation damage that gave away his condition. Danse jolted and recognized him as the man who had piloted _Battleborn_.

Questions filling his head, Danse followed Royce out. Emerging into sunlight, Royce crinkled her nose. “You smell like a decaying mole rat,” she told Danse. He couldn’t disagree. “How about we share a meal after you shower?” She gestured up a flight of stairs to the second level of the shabby motel. “We’ve got running water, though it’s cold. Room 202 or 204. There are fresh fatigues in the dressers. Meet you in the mess tent. That one,” she said, pointing at a large, olive canvas pavilion in the courtyard.

Danse thanked her and took advantage. Once clean and dressed, he felt more – pardon the phrase – _human_. A grim-encrusted mirror tossed his reflection at him. It had been some time since he’d worn olive drab pre-war fatigues and felt oddly young to be back in them. As he walked through the courtyard, he noticed that none of the armor in the camp matched, all different regional and model variations, even a few Outcast pieces, bright red stripes against black.

He met Royce in the mess tent, where she shoved a plate into his hands. They took seats at one of the tent’s folding tables as other soldiers ate and chatted around them. No one stared or whispered behind their hands, just conducted normal morning business adding to a buzz of noise within the tent. Danse found the lack of concern over there being a notable synth in their presence unnerving. “Why does no one care about me? Don’t they know who I am?” he asked, spearing a chunk of mirelurk hash with a bent fork. After the first bite, he began shoveling down his helping.

Royce broke a piece of bread in half and slathered both halves with soft brahmin butter. “Oh, everyone knows about you. The notice of your identity was sent all the way to the East, along with the story of your elimination.”

A mouthful of food stuck in Danse’s throat, nearly choking him. Fear spiraled into existence. “I –” He coughed. “What do you plan to do –”

Royce gave him a gentle smile – eerie when paired with the scars that led from her mouth to her ears –and shook her head. “Stay calm, Paladin. We try to keep under the radar here. You don’t stay that way by pissing off huge portions of the Wastes. Might have a few other synths in our ranks. How would we know?” She took a bite and swallowed. “We’re pretty far from both coasts, Paladin. The Circle wants results, not firestorms. Long as the job gets done, they don’t hold many tribunals.” 

Danse frowned into his plate. When he’d finished his serving, he couldn’t recall. “But… you’re harboring a fugitive. A traitor to the East Coast chapter.”

“Am I?” She raised a sly brow. “I think the Circle would vote that I was protecting advanced technology from being destroyed. Better under our jurisdiction than loose in the wild, right?” Leaning back in her seat, she chewed her bread and smiled, scars tugging at her face.

That was twice that Royce had mentioned the Circle. The Circle of Steel was a subsection of the Brotherhood, largely serving as Internal Affairs for the organization and keeping high-tiered officers from swerving off-track. “So, you serve the Circle,” said Danse, not wasting time beating about the bush. “But not as a paladin?”

Royce shrugged and opened a packet of dried apples. “To high-profile for my mission.”

“Which is?”

“That’s classified,” she said, taking a bite.

If anonymity was what she was after, Royce was going about it the right way. Elders often reviewed field reports from paladins and proctors serving other sectors, keeping themselves abreast of situations abroad. No one would be tracking the whereabouts of a knight-captain and her crew. Danse had pegged the base at housing around fifty members. Royce’s group was clearly gathering recon, possibly even preparing to mount an offense. This was a place called Battle Creek, aptly named if the upper echelon of the Brotherhood was about to take action. But against whom? He didn’t know the area. From the motel, he couldn’t even see the Great Lake, though he knew it to be nearby.

He tilted his empty plate and Royce jerked a thumb towards the mess line, granting him permission for a refill. While dishing his second helping, his elbow thumbed into the person behind him. “Watch yourself robo-boy,” a raspy voice spat. “You ain’t any better than us.” He turned wide eyes to find two ghouls in orange jumpsuits waiting in line. Both wore holotags.

They knew about him. Two random ghouls in the middle of nowhere, playing at being official Brotherhood members. He remained speechless until returning to Royce. “You take ghouls?” he asked in disbelief, sliding into his chair.

Royce, serene as ever, wiped sticky fruit residue on the outside of her black uniform’s sleeve. “Ghouls, former raiders, hell, I’d take Nightkin if I could find armor to scale.”

“How on Earth did you get any of them to volunteer?” Danse’s food sat forgotten.

“There are better ways to motivate the masses than threatening to burn farmsteads,” she said, folding her arms and leaning back in her chair. “If the those on the coasts took pause and looked around, they’d find opportunity instead of intolerance.”

“But the Codex –”

“Focuses on technology conservation and conduct, not warfare. That’s a choice the elders make for themselves.”

Danse’s cheeks turned hot. It felt as though she’s made an intentional dig at Arthur Maxson’s leadership. Maybe she had. Danse dug into his food and angrily chewed. Even now, after all he’d experienced, he still had trouble excusing rule-bending and deliberate misinterpretations of orders. “Where did you get the suits?” he asked, shifting the subject.

“The further north you go, the more you find laying around. Supplies are short and we make do. We’re a variant of the Midwest Brotherhood, though we try to abide by the Lyon’s Doctrine.”

Danse’s nose wrinkled. “The Lyons Doctrine failed.”

Royce unfolded her arms and placed gingerly clasped hands on the table. A few scars marred her knuckles. She leaned forward, blue eyes shining, and said, “Only because you East Coast dickwads stopped abiding by it.” Before Danse could be fully offended, she shifted back, hands now resting open-palmed on the table. “Think about it. Over the last fifteen years, the Brotherhood has become a splintered mess. East Coast. West Coast. The Outcasts. The sit and wait mentality of the Mojave chapter. I think you know the truth.”

“Which is?” Danse grumbled, dropping his fork as his appetite fled.

“It isn’t working,” Royce answered simply. “We’ve lost focus. You ask why no one’s looking to blast you full of holes. You’re an important discovery to us, and Maxson was wrong to try and destroy you. You’re special, Paladin. You could help us, not only by sharing what you know as an officer, but to bridge a gap between peoples.”

Danse’s throat went dry. “Peoples?”

“Look at our faces, Danse. Yours and mine. Which one of us looks like a monster?” She cocked her head, giving him full view of the hideous scarring that made patchwork of her face. “Can you tell me all synths are evil?”

“I… of course not.”

Royce smiled, kind eyes settled in the wreckage of her face. “Then, you see why the Circle has given you a pass. As technology, it’s our job to protect you. All of your kind. And if that includes bringing synth forces into our midst, I’m all for it. God knows our numbers need the boost.”

Danse stared at nothing as his mind tumbled. He found Royce both compassionate and impressive, and far more ambitious than he’d ever been. Could she be right? Since his identity had come to light, he’d considered himself a liability. Someone out there surely knew his recall code – one of the scientists being held at the Castle or a courser loose in the Wastes. He remembered the synths of the Commonwealth, all those who’d happily joined the Minutemen, glad to find purpose in their lives. Many others had taken to farming and trading, productive members of society. Sure, a few had gone rogue, mistakenly finding themselves tried up with raiders, but no more so than normal humans. 

Regret rode its way into his being. He and John had vanished from Diamond City. Piper and the rest of their friends would be mad with worry by now. His Minutemen would have started to search for him, combing the Commonwealth and finding no trace, putting themselves at risk while instigating a fruitless search. “We need to leave,” he told Royce. “As soon as John’s able, we have to go back to the Commonwealth. Do you have a spare ‘bird?”

“A _spare_?” Royce’s brows rose and her hands fell to her lap. “I… not at the moment, Paladin. I’m afraid you’ve caught us at a juncture. I’d welcome your input into our operations, but, for the foreseeable future, you won’t be going anywhere.”

Though her words didn’t sound like a threat, Danse couldn’t help but feel that he and John had been tossed into something large and foreboding. He was surrounded by Brotherhood and John was out of commission. They were trapped here and, given what he was discovering, Danse didn’t know to consider that a blessing or a curse. Patience had never been his strong suit, but if that meant he’d be able to play the role of Paladin Danse again, good God, what a miracle.


	9. A Single, Rogue Element

JOHN

Bunker Whiskey, MI

October 17th, 2288

A loss of warmth from beside John caused him to stir. His body felt like lead, his head stuffed with cotton. Lips cracked by fever-heat stung as he floated between realms. The room, wherever it was, remained blurry and hard to focus on. A rustle of clothes and scuffing of boots seemed far off.

Somewhere within the room, a woman, her voice rife with melodic notes, spoke. “He’s upstairs. We have a few minutes.”

“The package?” a man asked, his curt voice sounding vaguely familiar.

“Delivered and active,” a second man answered. He had a deep voice, each word clearly enunciated and formed with care. A pause before he continued. “It seems fate provides. The choice is whether or not to ignore providence.”

Silence. Then the sound of shuffling and sighs. “Are you sure you want to do this?” the woman asked, her lovely voice soft and quiet.

The first man gave a nervous-sounding grunt. “Unfortunately, we don’t get to choose our chances.”

“Well said,” the man with the voice like far-off thunder rumbled. “And the android?” he inquired.

“Remains to be seen,” the woman said. “I’ll speak with him. See where he stands.”

John tried to focus on the conversation, but his lids were heavy, and the room faded. He drifted away, sinking deep into his stupor. He found himself in a memory-dream, harvesting mirelurk eggs with Mal and Stacia’s family near the Battery, the soupy, green fog of Manhattan tickling the banks with weak tendrils. His young self was soaked in seawater up to the knees as he and Mal contested over who could hold the most eggs without dropping any. Liberty Isle stood tall and proud, if tiny, in the distance, their home jutting up from the ocean. It was a happy memory, his child-self joyful and excited to be so close to the forbidden city of New New York. His parents had grounded him for two months after. Worth it.

At the prick of a needle, awareness intruded, prodding John from his warm, still cocoon. His eyes cracked open. At his bedside, a man with glasses, white hair, and a knee-length lab coat was drawing John’s blood. Along with the normal brownish color of ghoul blood, swirls of bright green shone from within the vial. The background solidified, revealing the unfamiliar surroundings of med equipment and cracked plaster walls.

It all came back, his memory rolling backwards – Danse coming to his rescue, his struggles aboard the strange craft, the abduction in Diamond City, a body on the floor…

“How… long was I out?” John croaked, mouth dry.

The white-haired man bobbed his head up. “Oh. Welcome back.” He withdrew the needle. “Since yesterday. Sun’s at its zenith.”

John sat up, head pounding in protest. His squeezed his eyes shut, waiting for the throbbing to stop. Every joint ached and he felt weak as a newborn radstag. Thin tubes ran into a pulsing, green arm, the lines leading up to various bags hung above the bed. Danse wasn’t anywhere to be seen, which made slight worry bubble in John’s gut, but he knew what the inside of a field hospital looked like. A definite veil of druggy cloudiness kept him docile. Not the fun kind of drugs at all – he recognized the heavy feeling of sedation. “Why’m I –” He paused, forcing words and thoughts to form. “Why’m I close to knocked out?”

“You had a… well, let’s call it an alarming episode. It’s hard enough to keep the original soldiers from fighting with ghoul recruits. Seeing you hiss and spit like a feral tested tolerance.”

Oh, shit. He’d had a turn? John remembered none of it. He also didn’t grasp at why the doctor was tossing words like _soldiers_ and _recruit_ s around. Were they in a Minutemen camp, one on the outskirts of the Commonwealth?

“I vouched for you,” the doctor explained. “As did your… partner.”

Partner. Danse was safe somewhere? Thank fuck. “Why give two shits about me?”

The man lifted a shoulder in a shrug. “Science, I suppose. And intrigue.” He plucked a clipboard up from the foot of the cot. “I woke you to assess your stability and neurological status. It’s temporary, I’m afraid. You’ll need to go back under soon.”

A few minutes of independence before becoming a ragdoll again. John grimaced. Man, he’d really fucked his life up, and just when things were turning around.

“Can I counter your questions with one of my own?” Arcade asked, clicking the top of a pen.

“Ya just did,” John grumbled as he lay back down. He felt warm. Not fevered like before, but blanketed in a soothing, thick warmth. It made him want to go back to sleep.

“Another, then,” the doctor pressed. “Have these… _swings_ … been ongoing?”

“That’s kinda personal,” John muttered, not into sharing his struggles over the last year with a stranger.

“Becomes increasingly less personal the more people put at risk,” the doctor pointed out. His green eyes lacked empathy. “Luckily, we have the manpower to eradicate a single, rogue element, if need be.”

Deep-seated safe preservation sizzled under John’s glowing skin. The latent radiation within him expanded, probing the room and testing boundaries.

The doctor stumbled back, putting a hand to his stomach and coughing into his fist. He inspected his palm, probably expecting blood. One worried glance later, he rushed to say, “We may have gotten off on the wrong foot. My name is Arcade. I’m in charge of the clinic here and… well, I do need to know what type of threat you pose.”

John forced his feral-shadow side to settle. With a subconscious effort, he withdrew the rads from the room. “Same as any ghoul, I’d wager. Just that my timeframe’s sped up.”

“I see.” Arcade straightened, pushing glasses back up his nose. He brought the clipboard up and scratched a few notes. “Did you, um, always glow?”

“Naw. That part’s recent. Walked into a reactor and sponged up more than my share of energy.”

The pen flew across the clipboard, moving so fast Arcade had to be using shorthand. “Really? Fascinating. I’d like to –”

Arcade broke off as someone moved through the open doorway, joining them. The silhouette of wide set shoulders, swept up forelocks and stiff gait gave the man away. John instantly calmed and sank deeper into his cot. “Hey…” he muttered in a soft, dreamy voice.

Danse pulled up a seat and sank into it. “Hey,” he echoed. “You’re awake.” A small smile rode his face, eyes crinkling at the corners. He entwined their fingers and brought John’s hand to his mouth, brushing lips over the ghoul’s rings. The bands spun loosely under Danse’s lips, threatening to slip off. John hadn’t noticed the weight loss. “You gave me one hell of a scare,” said Danse. “I was out of my depth.”

“Never my intent.” John closed his eyes and brought Danse’s hand to his face, relishing the strong fingers cupping his cheek. “Let’s blame the fuckers that nabbed me, a’ight?”

“Agreed,” Danse rumbled in that soothing deep voice of his. His thumb played over the bumpy skin of John’s cheekbone. “I’m quite tired of losing track of you. It… well, it may be time for a tracer.”

John chuckled at the weak joke and let himself float for a while, Danse’s touch keeping him from drifting off entirely. They never said _I love you_ much. No need to harp on it when the sentiment was an ever-present reality. Not that eight letters could properly sum up their connection, anyway.

“If either of you need anything, I’ll be… over here… analyzing,” Arcade said, voice waning as he stepped away. 

John opened his eyes. “You went and left me alone with the local wildlife? Brave of you.”

“You were well cared for.” Danse’s brown eyes shined, rare hope making them glisten. “I had to see for myself. John, this isn’t like any place I’ve seen. Though it’s Brotherhood, it isn’t –”

Flames lit within John’s veins. A primordial drive made him struggle to sit up, to get his legs under him, to make a mad dash out the door. His sedation only allowed for mild thrashing. “ _Brotherhood?_ ” he spat, pulling away from Danse’s touch. “You lost your mind? They’ll kill us both!”

Danse held a palm up and set the other on John’s leg. “They haven’t. And I don’t believe they will. Their leader, a woman named Royce, is with the Circle of Steel.” 

Annoyance flitted through John. “You say that like I know what it means.”

Danse’s gaze searched the air as if seeking inspiration. “The Circle is… well, it’s an old and deep-rooted section of the Brotherhood. While elders are responsible for their own chapters, the Circle holds everything together. It isn’t widely spoke of. There’s little glory in being a member. The Circle makes sure that each chapter, and its elder, follows certain guidelines and orders. It, um, keeps house in a way while regional chapters handle their own businesses.”

A frown bent John’s mouth. “So… the Circle plays Brotherhood Mommy while the Elder Daddies are off at work waging wars?”

“It… nudges elders back on track should they deviate,” Danse said, seeming irked at John’s simplistic layman.

“ _Deviate_ like overstaying their welcome in the Commonwealth? Or like stripping the Capital for parts?”

Danse sighed and sat heavily in his chair. “Royce and I discussed both cases. Things like that can’t continue. A change is coming for the Brotherhood.”

“Sure that’ll go over well with the Furball King of the Blimp.”

“Maxson will heed the Circle’s wishes,” Danse stated with confidence. “He’ll have no choice.”

A bed feeling wormed its way through John. He doubted putting the East Coast Brotherhood back in line would be so simple, but if Danse trusted this Royce, that went a long way. Danse wasn’t a guy that welcomed anyone with open arms. John wanted to say more, want to adamantly voice his concern, but a groggy fog kept the words buried in his throat. They’d argue later.

He should be feeling better, should be coming around. Damn that IV, keeping him subdued. He was sick of chems, sick of being controlled by substances. All his talk to freedom and he’d made himself a slave. Shame punched him in the gut. This was his fault. He earned this. If only, if only, if only… too late to turn back bad choices.

Danse was staring, a deep crease between his brows. A gentle green glow bathed his face, slowly pulsing in time to John’s heartbeat. “John? I’m worried about you. Royce invited me to a briefing. I don’t have to –”

“Go.” John gulped and forced a crooked smile. “I’m okay. Really.”

“Um, not to intrude,” Arcade told Danse, stepping back into view, “but he should be put back under. His taxed system still needs to flush itself.”

“Time for me to go,” John mused, frowning.

Danse squeezed John’s leg. “I won’t be far,” he promised, his jaw tight.

“You’re such a wet rag,” John huffed, chest full of emotion. No doubt that Danse would bust down walls if he believed John to be in danger. “Everything’s gonna be fine, Dan. Honest.”

Arcade stood John’s side once more, inserting another drug into the IV. “Okay,” the doctor muttered under his breath. “Here we go.”

Almost instantly, darkness swarmed, dragging John away from Danse, the clinic, and the guilty thoughts clouding his mind.


	10. Judas

ARCADE

Bunker Whiskey, MI

October 17th, 2288

Fate was a cruel mistress, dropping two lovers into their midst at Bunker Whiskey. Danse, positioned quietly by John’s side, ran a gentle hand over the bandana covering the ghoul’s head, the tenderness in his touch speaking volumes. That made final preparations… upsetting. 

Arcade turned his back – one, to discard the empty syringe, and, two, to let his face pinch in secret as all types of bad feelings tumbled through him, rattling his soul. Put less eloquently, he felt like shit. Too late to turn back now, and out of his hands regardless.

“You’re a good man, Arcade,” said Danse in his deep bass. “Thank God we found our way here in time.”

Arcade’s stomach dropped at the assumption. _Good man_? How dare someone say such a thing about him. Clearing his throat, he wiped damp palms down the sides of his lab coat and faced Danse. “I didn’t do anything noteworthy. And I doubt God cares much for the plights of Man. Particularly sinners such as us.”

The former paladin froze in his seat, caution flickering behind his eyes. His gaze darted to the sleeping ghoul and back to Arcade. _That’s it, Paladin. Don’t make me draw you a diagram._

“Oh.” Pink crawled up Danse’s cheeks. “I haven’t met many like… Are you with the man in the mask?”

An abrupt bark of laughter expelled from Arcade’s lungs. “Ulysses? No.” He coughed and regained control. “No. Though normally, an older, worldly man would be right up my proverbial alley. Alas, he and I don’t share the same proclivities. Quamobrem Iucunda Non Nobis Esse Queunt.”

Danse’s eyes narrowed and his lips pursed in thought. “ _This is… why we can’t have nice things_?” he translated.

Putting hands in his coat pockets, Arcade leaned back against one of the metal carts, its surface topped with a microscope and the vial of blood he’d taken from John. “You speak Latin?” he asked, impressed.

“Only a smattering, I’m afraid,” Danse admitted. “Enough to keep tabs on Legion activity while it existed.”

Oh, how small the world was and continued to be.

Coming up from the main camp, a whirring of servos and deep, earth-tremoring steps approached the clinic. The plodding stopped just outside, and the hiss of releasing pressure contested with the grind of hydraulics. Christine Royce ducked through the door flap. She snagged a quick look at Danse and turned fierce eyes in Arcade’s direction, her smile tight. “I brought that suit of armor you needed to look at,” she said in that honeyed voice of hers. “I trust you to find a solution.”

A dry swallow caught in Arcade’s throat. “Already? I thought… it would last longer.”

“I’ll need it after dusk,” she said, unblinking, each word purposeful.

A surge of nerves later, Arcade answered, “I’ll have it done.”

“Good.” Her smile softened and she turned her head. “Danse?” The paladin immediately stood. “I need your brain and council. Would you join my core team for a briefing of our mission here? I could show you our supply depot on the way. I think you’d enjoy seeing our armory.”

Danse’s somber face lit up. “I certainly would. And I’m honored to be included. I don’t… know quite how to repay you.” His chin dipped, and he glanced at John, brushing a hand over the still ghoul’s glowing wrist.

Royce’s laugh twinkled like starlight. “I’m sure we’ll be on even ground soon enough.” She stepped backwards and lifted the flap leading out. “With me?”

The burly man shrugged into his denim jacket. Two symbols intersected on the back, but Arcade didn’t have time to catch what they were. After Danse ducked through the doorway, Royce hesitated before giving Arcade a solemn nod. The flap dropped and they were gone.

A long breath left Arcade’s lungs as he turned, gripping the lip of the cart behind him. He longed for the nostalgic monotony of life in Freeside – just him with his humble work and low stakes, playing with science without the looming weight of grave importance. It had been easy enough to hide in the rear tents, avoiding human contact and the fear of explaining his past.

Veronica, a Brotherhood defector become servant of the Followers, had introduced him to Royce. That the Knight-captain trusted him enough to pull him into her inner circle was staggering. Surely, he didn’t deserve such faith. Arcade wasn’t a man that easily suffered from empathy. He was no fighter and had sat out the Second Battle of Hover Dam entirely. Nonetheless, he could compliment Royce’s ability to spot opportunity a mile away. Burdened by free will, he’d taken her up on the offer to do something larger with his life. Would he regret that choice? With their newly accelerated timeframe, he’d know soon enough – only a handful of hours remained.

He frowned down at the sample he’d taken from John, threads of green swimming through dark blood. Scooting a chair over, he took a seat and began his analysis. People were much easier to figure out when looking at their base codes. Drive, instinct, desires – all part of chromosomal soothsaying. Since no one spent much time studying a glowing one’s anatomy, Arcade wasn’t sure what to expect. Tissue recovered from dead glowers almost immediately disintegrated.

Under a microscope, John’s green cells attacked normal ones, causing them to die. Such was a typical effect of radiation poisoning, nothing revolutionary. The extraordinary part was that after a few minutes some of the dead cells soaked up the surrounding green energy and became more of same malicious, phosphorescent green cells.

Arcade’s eyes traveled to the clinic’s occupied cot. He fished through a container and gave himself half a dose of Rad-Away. Royce had briefed him on fact that John had abilities beyond anything previously chronicled, that Danse had told her of events leading to their arrival at Whiskey. Safely sedated, the ghoul was no threat to their mission. The paladin, on the other hand, was quite likely to cause mayhem once events were in motion. Royce just needed to keep him busy for a couple of hours.

Following a supper of chalky field rations, Arcade packed a small gunny sack with notebooks. He then pulled a large, heavy canvas bag down from a shelf and unrolled it, lining it up on the floor beside John’s cot. Standing, he unhooked the ghoul from the connecting IVs. Just in case, he administered another dose of sedatives into John’s arm and waited. And waited. He sighed, watching sunlight vanish. The electric lamps in the clinic remained off, the only source of illumination the gentle green pulse of John’s exposed skin. The mounting darkness caused a block of pressure to form in Arcade’s throat, hindering his ability to swallow. He stood on the edge, his confidence flagging as if he were Orpheus, about to look back and ruin everything.

Deep in those perilous moments of uncertainty, Arcade nearly leapt from his skin when someone in mismatched power armor flung the door flap open. They stomped just inside and froze. A hiss and whir filled the silence and Ulysses stepped out of the back, shaking twisted hair from sharp eyes. “Here we are at the brink. Have you prepared?”

“Best I can,” Arcade muttered in response. “In practice if not in spirit.”

Ulysses cocked his head, dreads gently swaying, framed in the glow of nightfall spilling in from the doorway. “Doubts?”

“Of course. I comprehend the necessity just fine, but…” Arcade stuffed hands in his pockets and stared down at John, wincing. “Is this… the right thing?”

A beat of silence passed before Ulysses spoke. “Do you ask my opinion on morality? Right and wrong hold only the meanings you assign them. If you truly wish for an end to this status quo, Royce’s option is one of many. Her choice, your choice, even mine. No coercion, but retribution. We all bear the flags of our past. Legion. Brotherhood. Enclave. All notes in this grand anthem we call America. But you must remove the infection for the good of the whole, the field cleared before building anew.”

“So we set it ablaze,” Arcade agreed. His simple, boring life now bore a thick coating of gray. Not Royce’s fault, not his, no one’s really, just the realities of life.

He stepped closer to John’s bedside and slid arms under the ghoul’s shoulders. Ulysses, gliding silently like a phantom, moved to take hold of John’s ankles. “Two. One,” Arcade said. They lifted the limp glowing one and shuffled to one side, lowering him into the body bag Arcade had rolled out on the floor. Once limbs had been tucked into place, Arcade zipped the bag closed, sealing bioluminescence away and dropping the clinic into an even heavier oppressive darkness.

Together, he and Ulysses moved the bag, lighter than Arcade thought it would be, towards the door. The dual sets of power armor stood like a pair of gargoyles perched outside the clinic. They laid the bag down in the doorway for a few seconds while crawling into the suits. Sealed inside their armor, they each took hold of a loop at either end of the bag and lifted it like two hunters carrying a dead radstag home.

The path they took led them around the back of the clinic and down a barely visible dirt track that weaved between the woods. As promised, the trail was free of sentries. It was a modest hike through the night, perilous without the use of headlights. Sensors could pick up movement, environmental dangers – such as the low-level rads leaking from the body bag – and wayward transmissions but did nothing to assist in traversing terrain. Arcade, never much of an outdoorsman, squinted through the visor, careful to avoid stumbling in the dark. The great lake beyond the trees glittered, sparkles of reflected starlight flashing as they moved past maple and red oak trunks. 

The journey was quiet, odd for the pair of them, unrest simmering beneath Arcade’s skin. _Now is a time for courage_ , he chastised himself, _not fear sweat and nausea_. The tree line broke and they walked until the dirt underfoot turned to coarse gravel. An innocuous steel pole taller than Arcade himself stood near the water’s edge, unremarkable in its design. If it were daylight, faint rust would be visible along the sides. Hydraulics whirred in the armors’ knees as they lay lowered the bag onto the bank.

Arcade cranked the release valve and backed out of his suit. He mopped at his forehead with a coat sleeve. It would be easy to blame the suit’s interior for the sweat, but that wasn’t the case.

“Gannon,” Ulysses said, his deep voice modulated through the helmet’s speakers, visor fixed directly on Arcade’s clammy face. “Remember, you’re no Judas,” he reassured.

“Sure,” Arcade grumbled, deciding not to add a snort at the comment. Ulysses was no shining beacon of just ethics. He was just a courier, a neutral party dropping off a parcel.

Like the enigma he was, Ulysses left, vanishing into the woods, the stars on his back fading into the night, heavy footfalls fading into nothing.

Alone on the beach, Arcade entertained the brief thought of making a run for it, to disappear into the wilderness as well and take up fishing someplace deep along the nation’s southern peninsula. But although he wasn’t gallant, he was no coward either.

He removed his glasses and stepped up to the pole, directly facing it. Aligned with his face, an oval of red light came to life within the pole. A blue beam shot out and passed left to right, scanning his eyes. The light switched from red to green.

A few meters out, bubbles rumbled below the shallow lake water, fracturing the sky’s reflection. Slowly, a steel box broke the surface, rising taller and taller until it stood eight-feet high. Two doors parted down the center and folded partially in on themselves, revealing a pair of officers in starched olive dress uniforms. Lake water dripped onto their hats as they departed the elevator, wading to reach Arcade on the bank.

Arcade waved a hand at the stationary armor. “Get rid of that.”

One of the officers veered away and climbed into the suit. Once sealed, it stomped towards the lake where it would be submerged. The other officer stooped along with Arcade to carry John in his bag into the elevator. When the elevator doors closed once again all three were damp to their thighs. Arcade leaning tiredly against the side of the lift as it descended, laying indecision to bed. Too late to change anything.

The system hummed softly as it traveled, numbers clicking in reverse order with each level they passed. Patriotic muzak played from speakers above, a synthesized version of some dirge from long ago. The lift came to a stop on the second to last floor. A chime dinged and the doors slid open. Arcade found himself face to face with a severe-looking woman past her prime. Her gray hair was swept up into precise placement, her thin lips pursed in distaste. The olive clothes she wore looked plain awful against the yellow tones of her skin. A gurney sat in the long white hall behind her. “Honestly,” she grumbled, “bringing another ghoul into Atlantis. Disgusting things. You’d better be right about this one.”

There were far worse things in this world than ghouls or mutants. _Oderint dum metuant_ , he thought with grim humor. _Let them hate so long as they fear_. He often found comfort in ancient quotes, things old but not forgotten. Much like the Enclave. “Madison,” he lamented, stepping aside as the officers towed the body bag towards the waiting gurney, “for a scientist, I don’t believe you’ve witnessed much.”

Dr. Li narrowed her eyes, wrinkles crinkling the corners. “I’ve witnessed miracles, seen life bestowed on man-made tissue.”

Danse popped into Arcade’s mind. The paladin seemed as true a man as any Arcade had met. And he’d be fit to murder once he found his lover gone. It was a relief to know they’d never meet again. “I’m certain you’ve seen plenty within the confines of a lab,” Arcade agreed. Perhaps it wasn’t best to poke a gorgon like her, but his mouth tended to run on its own accord. “The Brotherhood, the Institute, and now the Enclave. Who haven’t you worked for?”

“God himself, I believe,” she flippantly answered, observing the officers as they freed John from the bag and strapped him to the gurney. His glow filled the narrow corridor.

“And how would one know that for certain?” Arcade challenged.

She turned her head back to him and laughed, a rough sound that failed to light up her face. “I like you, Gannon. Always the academic. Welcome back.”

He returned a calculated smile, just enough to please, hiding true colors like a chameleon in plain sight.

Was he a good man?

Not at all.

Was he about to flip the tables?

Absolutely.


	11. One King, One Crown

DANSE

Bunker Whiskey, MI

October 17th, 2288

Everything appeared to be in order.

Royce’s group, though rough and unconventional, seemed fit for duty and carried the typical heavy weaponry of armored units awaiting deployment. No landmines ringed the camp. A round-the-clock rotation of snipers stood guard instead. Not Danse’s type of set-up but, despite being called _Paladin_ , he wasn’t in charge here. 

Though nothing seemed overtly out of place, the sensation of being watched made Danse’s nerves burn hot. While none of Royce’s soldiers acted out, it was clear that Danse was a spectacle, the rogue synth with the _kill on sight_ order; they stared and whispered out the corners of their mouths.

Thankfully, Royce was quite in tune with the emotional state of those around her. In that way, she reminded Danse of Curie. She suggested they take a break from camp inspection and led him out bounds, into the grove that surrounded the hilltop. As he followed, Danse wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. Enjoying a stroll seemed an extravagant luxury while John lay recuperating and Royce’s unit stood poised for some mystery conflict.

Despite all the bombs to land on American soil centuries ago, enemies had missed a few places. A scenic woodland of trees spread before them, live growth creating a canopy of leaves in a variety of colors that seemed almost magical to someone used to the dirty earth tones of the Capital Wasteland. While the Commonwealth might be lush in comparison to the Capital, the wide breadth of shades here were unique – russet and mustard yellow and ashy green. It was almost as if the war, in its haste to destroy, had forgotten a single forest.

More than the serenity or stillness of the woods, it was the smell that made Danse feel transported. His lungs drank greedy gulps of clean air tinged with the scents of plant life, the coolness of autumn making it crisp on the tongue. The air had weight to it, humidity reminding him of the gigantic lake that sat beyond the thicket. Columns of sunlight broke through the foliage, dappling the path he and Royce walked. The further they got from the base, the more alien the area felt. Away from the reminders of a Brotherhood world Danse no longer occupied, the tension knotting his muscles drained.

“It’s immensely peaceful here.” Danse trailed behind Royce, the back of his denim jacket warmed by the setting sun. “Though an odd choice for a recon base,” he continued. Faintly, he heard the chittering of small, native animals. Out of habit, he scanned the bases of tree trunks for mole rat holes. “Did you select the location yourself?” he prodded, hoping to finally be briefed on her situation.

The silver strands that wove through Royce’s short hair sparkled in the orange blaze of sunset. “I was chasing a hunch.”

“To what avail?”

Royce took a seat on a dry patch of deadfall, bracing her back against a trunk and folding the black-clad legs of her uniform, facing the expanse of forestry. “You know of the Brotherhood airships? The ones that precursed the Prydwen?”

A frown tugged Danse’s lips down. Suddenly, he didn’t like it here anymore. His military brain strung hints together as caution whispered in his ear to be on alert. “Several went down in the Midwest. Near here, I believe.” To read about it, those airships had been the pride of the Brotherhood. Then they were gone. No more entries.

“Good boy. By the time ground troops made it to Chicago, all traces of the crafts had disappeared like an old, stray laser shot.” Absently, her fingers traced the scars on her shaded face while she spoke. “But where had the components gone? Raiders leave shells behind, and pieces of equipment they can’t figure out how to use.”

Danse paused for a moment to ponder. His ignorance of the region left gaps in any hypothesis. “Your theory?” he asked.

“Someone confiscated the debris. Someone that knew what to do with it.” She blew a sigh and raised her eyes to meet Danse’s. “I’m one of the Circle’s problem-solvers. A detective, if you will. I look for answers, regardless of what that means to a chapters’ narrative. The Brotherhood doesn’t enjoy speaking of its failures or deploying full divisions out to chase half-baked leads. They’d rather write an incident off entirely. But the loss of a small contingent consisting of acceptable casualties – former raiders, ghouls, flawed conscripts – could be easily ignored. No reports. No record in the Codex.”

“You give your superiors plausible deniability.” He stuffed hands in his jacket pockets, nervous over her freedom. Royce’s clearance wasn’t something he envied. Even as General, he was glad to have Sterling, Sturges and others to back his calls. Left alone in a vacuum, he wasn’t sure he could fully conquer self-doubt. Judging what was good for an entire populace remained quite different from formatting a military siege.

“Yes, Sir. Say I was wrong, and there was nothing to find here – no harm, no foul. But a mission on the books means, particularly one that goes sideways, well… failing to eliminate a veritable threat means the East Coast is notified. And then Maxson will push in.” Her eyes went cold and she swallowed. “Any more glory and that boy will become untouchable.”

“Why is that a bad thing?” Danse couldn’t follow her concern. He’d known Arthur since he was a squire, had grown up under Danse’s eye. Maxson was a brilliant tactician, and always achieved his goals. There was no better man to wipe out a problem.

“Nobody likes a dictator, Danse,” prompted Royce. “Think how Julius Caesar spent the Ides.”

Danse’s subconscious reprimanded him by making his stomach clench. He himself had been one of those _problems_ , and Maxson hadn’t hesitated to try and eradicate him. Surely, Maxson burned with rage at being left out of the fight against the Institute and stood eager to release his potency. Should rumor be believed, even now, the far-off East Coast was poised to take the entire Commonwealth by force. All farmsteads and municipals would become Brotherhood property, ranchers and gardeners indentured to serve, cities little more than ports of call or bases. A fully militarized kingdom with its very own monarch.

Would Arthur do such a thing? The answer made Danse’s fingers curl in the pockets of his Minutemen jacket.

To look at the course of Arthur’s life, the man had sought time and again to prove he was capable of unprecedented things, bringing the impossible to life. Throughout squire training, he had excelled at fighting and physical challenges, often turning to dirty, yet permissible tactics to succeed. Danse recalled the tourneys in the courtyard on the Citadel, rows of soldiers cheering to watch the youth in action. When the Outcasts had been absorbed back into their fold, no one had anticipated the expense being an overhaul of policy, booting the Lyons’ Doctrine in favor of more aggressive stances.

The launch of the Prydwen saw its own trials. Designed to circle the Capital, it hadn’t been meant to fly the lengthy distances Arthur insisted on traveling to. The zeppelin was constantly understocked with both food and equipment necessary to keep the thing in motion. Gear was easy to come by, and Danse personally had overseen many salvage missions, stocking a vertibird to full capacity with tech stripped from facilities down below. Food though… honestly, on board hydroponics could have kept the troops fed, but dissention brewed at that option. The discord began with Arthur himself. He felt it beneath him to live off the stubby greens the scribes produced. Others didn’t want to because Arthur didn’t want to. And so, the taxation of farmsteads began.

Oh, the things Sarah and her father would have said about that.

“Do you… mean to stop him?” Danse asked, half-fearing the answer. No one dared challenge a Maxson. One king, one crown, one nation under him. 

Royce pinned Danse with steely, unbroken eye contact. “The Circle can and will take measures to halt an elder – _any elder_ – that sways off course.”

“By force?”

Her kind face hardened. “Yes. Other chapters can be called on to intervene. Obviously, that’s not ideal – pulling other divisions away from their regions and duties – but the Brotherhood can’t afford to be set back generations due to one brahmin-headed leader.”

A year ago, he would have fought her, called her a blasphemer and locked her in a brig. Maxson would have executed her. If the Circle came then, deeming it the East Coast’s final straw, other chapters in tow – West Coast, Mojave or Midwest filling the ranks against them – Danse would have battled to the death to defend Maxson’s honor. Now in exile, he realized the fool he’d been.

Danse’s mind conjured a terrible image. Brothers fighting brothers on a battlefield, each wearing the same emblem, both sides believing they stood on the ethical high ground. Hadn’t America fought an eerily similar war hundreds of years prior? How little war changed. “You sound so convinced that would work,” he told Royce.

“It has before.” At his confused look, she continued, “Not that you’d know about that. Remember who writes history, Danse.”

The victors. Yes, he knew of that quote. “I fear the storm is gathering.” The Commonwealth was on high alert. Hopefully, the loss of the synth posing as Guy McDonough would buy time, letting whatever deal he brokered with Maxson turn to dust. “The East Coast is an unfriendly place. Many hate us.” A blush crept over his face. “Um, the Brotherhood, I mean.”

She looked down, dark lashes fanning her cheeks. As the sun dipped below the horizon, shadows formed around her face. Long, curving scars stretched her mouth into a counterfeit smile. “The Brotherhood is dying. We’ve been dying since we began, become a cancer to ourselves. It’s interfering with our key mission. What are we safeguarding if we destroy everyone and ourselves in the process?” Her gaze flicked up to him. “I’d pay any price to fix that, to be the saviors of the world we were meant to be. Wouldn’t you?”

The words, _of course_ , stuck in his throat. Fresh loss from the fall of the Institute still stung. Curie, Deacon, Garvey, even Valentine – their lives had been a steep cost to get the Commonwealth in the position it currently stood. For Danse to stand as a leader, not only for the Minutemen but for the freed synths as well was nothing short of astonishing. Not that he’d asked for it, not that he’d imagined it, but here it was, his responsibly and his honor to serve.

Should Royce and the Circle prevail, would his Minutemen conscript into a new, inclusive regime of the Brotherhood of Steel? Could he convince them to? What of his synth soldiers? He feared for their safety. Policy from on high didn’t always trickle down into the trenches, and there were always bad eggs that spoiled the bunch. He could look at the divide the Outcasts created to know that true. Even his own Knight Rhys had proved impossible to tame under his command, taunting Sterling relentlessly up until the point the vault-dweller outranked him.

The sun dipped, rays extinguishing beyond the thatched trees. His Minutemen jacket cooled, laying as a comforting weight across his shoulders. Speaking of valid mutiny and dissention but him of edge. He wasn’t a man of talk, he was a man of action, and would rather be actively involved in a situation than discuss political gains. “I have… much to think about. Can we return to base?”

In the fading light, Royce’s expression was indiscernible. “Of course.”

The walk back progressed slowly, Royce trailing behind as if giving Danse space to mull. Danse’s hand drifted over the left side of his chest. Sterling’s wedding bands were nestled within the inside pocket. He wanted to take John home, Royce in tow, and put the rest of his life in motion. Ruminating about Commonwealth affairs from here did little good.

Night was well into effect by the time they returned. A few barrel fires burned, lamps hung at walkway junctures, but no floodlights lit Whiskey. The motel base looked almost haunted with its few residents scattered about. Danse didn’t need to see them to be aware of the snipers roosting on the roofs.

Royce held back, waving a few of her armored units to her as Danse ducked into the clinic. Instantly, goosebumps prickled along Danse’s skin. The room was pitch black, lacking even John’s telltale ghoul glow. “Hello?” he called into the darkness. “John? Arcade?”

No answer.

Gut twisting, Danse whirled. “Royce!” he yelled, tossing the doorway flap aside. He stepped outside and froze. Six soldiers in power armor aimed guns at him. In their midst stood Royce, hand over a sidearm. Royce lifted her chin sharply, and the troupe around her took a step forward.

“What is this?” Danse hissed, muscles in his arm aching to whip his laser from his back.

“I’m sorry, Danse,” said Royce. In the camp’s faint firelight, she looked tired and unhappy. “You caught us at a bad time. I had to make a choice.” She shook her head and seemed genuinely contrite. “You weren’t meant to be here. We’re at the cusp of an offensive attack and it needs to be quiet and quick. I can only hope you’ll make the decision to stand with us.”

Ice water filled Danse’s veins, chilling him to the bone. “What are you talking about? What did you do with John?”

“He’s with Arcade, at my order,” said Royce. “Your ghoul is my Trojan horse. Danse… are you going to fight me or listen?”

Danse’s stomach roiled as he backed up. “Where’s John? Please,” he begged. “Tell me.”

“He’s… with the Enclave,” Royce softly answered.

It seemed as if the very ground disappeared. A wild sense of vertigo sent Danse’s mind tumbling. “The Enclave,” he repeated in a whisper. Waves of memories – implanted memories – crashed over him, of countless skirmishes in the Capital, armored units against flame-wielding Hellfire troopers, flashes of energy and plasma popping in the night like fireworks. God, nothing stayed dead forever did it? 

John was gone, sent off like a pawn in a game. An ache threatened to crush Danse’s heart as red blanketed his vision. “Then I’ll fight you all to the end,” he promised, raising his hand to grab for his laser rifle.

A strong arm snaked around Danse’s throat. “Pity,” a muffled voice rumbled into his ear. He jerked and struggled in the iron grip of theman in the mask with the twisted hair.

The Brotherhood had betrayed him yet again. The Enclave loomed behind the curtain. John had been taken once more, and Danse was so very far from home. In a wave of sudden defeat, Danse’s muscles went stringy and the world dissolved around him. As the masked man’s grip intensified, he sagged into darkness.


	12. Figments

JOHN

Atlantis

October 18th, 2288

The whispers roused John.

On the outskirts of perception, distant voices chattered, eternally trapped within a sliver of time. They spoke of mundane things – the cost of gasoline, the latest hair trends, how best to spend a Saturday morning. In one substantial moment, the ethereal prattle shifted from casual chatter to terrified screams. It was the end of the world. Most voices cut short, but the few that remained fades into a low murmur, talking amongst themselves, thoughts turned savage and primal. Feral.

Leaving behind soft warmth and foggy thought, John found himself strapped upright to a metal wall. Everything was bright and sharp and cold, accompanied by a hardened lance of fear. A blue-toned forcefield formed a cylinder around him while a circular light fixed into the ceiling bathed him in a florescent pool. Faint moisture clung to chilly air, accented by a hint of rust. John swayed lightly within restraints that bound him chest, waist, and thigh upright to the wall behind. The image of the space wavered, blurring his vision. He blinked and swallowed, forcing his surrounding into perspective.

Before his compartment stretched a long corridor flanked on one side by several clear-paneled cells sealed by a solid energy field where the doorway should be. Each chamber had an occupant within. Super mutants. Deathclaws. A squat centaur spat occasional globs of radioactive spittle at the walls containing it. One cell housed a… person, pulled from who knew where, half-transformed by FEV. It writhed on the ground in slow, painful rolls and didn’t speak. On the other side were ghouls, so many of them, in tubes like John’s, thrashing, hissing as they bounced off the forcefields.

The source of the voices.

When was the last time he’d taken Curie’s time-biding meds? The morning before leaving Sanctuary? Had that been days or weeks? It’s difficult to track time when you’re constantly being kidnapped.

Directly down the hall from John stood a closed steel door, making him the star attraction on display in this house of horrors. A strong tug against the restraints proved them solid. He leaned forward, experimentally knocking his bare forehead into the forcefield. There was no shock, but the barrier was solid. Looking down, he found a device strapped high on his right arm, a pair of intervascular tubes looping through it. A clear fluid ran through one of the tubes. The content in the other tube was phosphorescent.

He supposed he should have been scared for his life, panicking to wake to unfamiliar surroundings yet again. But something deeper ran through him, a sense of finality, of a clock ticking down. Comforted by the presence of other ghouls, it seemed they knew a secret he was about to uncover. That part, amidst all the uncertain horror, exited him.

A depressurizing hiss made him look up. The hall’s steel door slid aside, and a bunch of people strolled in. It was that pale-ass doc from the Brotherhood clinic and some old lady, plus a pair of folks in radiation suits. And two escorts in Hellfire power armor. John’s time spent in the Capitol told him exactly who they were. Enclave.

Fuck.

A racket built in the menagerie, mutants and deathclaws bellowing at the procession’s appearance. The centaur cowered. A single flash of electricity cracked in each cell, stopping the noise. Each creature recoiled and stilled.

The woman marched past the cowed monstrosities, stern eyes locked on John. Arcade and the escorts flanked her, and they all approached John’s cell. “Dear, God,” she muttered, frowning. “I supposed there’s no way around speaking to it.” She squared her shoulders and stared into John’s day-glow face. “So, you’re the one we’ve been chasing all these years. I must admit, I’m disappointed.”

“I get that a lot,” John grumbled. If an interrogation from the Enclave was unavoidable, best to poke as much fun at it as possible. “Say, ain’t you guys supposed to be long dead?”

“I’d say the same of you, McDonough,” the woman countered.

John shut his trap, mystified at how he could possibly be identified. The guy with the smooth skin and blonde curls was long gone. The posters and pennants of Diamond City flew by in memory. The frantic run to Goodneighbor on election night stung to this day. John McDonough had died in segments, the outcome of the vote taking its own piece. He’d made sure to finish the job not long after. Several identities later, only a bald, glowing husk remained. “Guess I ain’t as dead as some would like.”

“Apparently.”

Arcade hung back, refusing eye contact while the two in the rad-proof suits fiddled with Geiger counters, scanning him. “Still emitting a steady dose of low-level radioactivity, Dr. Li,” one reported. “Consciousness hasn’t raised the amount.”

“Show me,” said Li. The counter was presented, and she peered at the readings.

Li. Some alarm went off in the back of John’s brain. The Institute scientists being held at the Castle had given up a roster of missing high-level personnel. Her name was high on the list. Looked like the Enclave now had access to an eminent Institute scientist. What a goddamn nightmare scenario.

“Hell of a coincidence,” John drawled, pining Arcade with a venomous stare, “meeting in a place like this. Might almost call that an unhappy accident.”

“Well,” Arcade muttered under the weight of John’s ire, “that’s not entirely true. Transmission came in from Far Harbor a while back, made us look to the East Coast. From there, an informant on the Institute payroll pointed us in the right direction.”

Ah, shit. That Child of Atom John burned during his escape from the submarine base. Guy’d made some kinda call before John had melted his insides. Overshadowed by shock and horror over what he’d been capable of, John had forgotten the radio call.

“Had that informant lived, she could have given additional information,” Arcade continued, side-eyeing Li. “Pinpointed a location and cut down on wasted time.”

Li handed the Geiger counter off and waved a dismissive hand. “As if we needed some screech-voiced drug proprietor to do the work of our intel officers. Better to have eliminated her. It’s done. Let’s move forward.”

Cricket, the Commonwealth’s roving chem-dealer, immediately popped into John’s mind. He could swear he saw her faint outline at the back of the procession, arms crossed under her flat chest and squinting red-rimmed eyes at him. _Stupid-headed Johnny_ , she chided. _C’mon, c’mon!_ _Figure it out, fancy pants._

Not only had Cricket been missing from the Commonwealth since the Institute fell, but she’d been the one to sell him the green vial that altered his life. The goddamn Enclave had nabbed her. Conflicting feelings of guilt and fulfilled justice weighed heavily on John. On the one hand, it looked like she’d put a lot of people at risk for caps. On the other, she’s lost her life over his purchase. Once he’d taken the drug, John fought to claim Goodneighbor and changed his name. Only Daisy, Finn, and Fahr had known both his identities. No wonder Cricket and the Enclave thought he was dead. John McDonough was long gone by then.

By now, Li was eyeing John up and down in a clinical way. “Specimen appears standard. Gaunt. Glowing. Irritating.”

A sliver of smile tugged John’s lip. “Aw, granny. It’s almost like you know me.”

“Hardly,” Li said in a gruff tone. One of the rad-suited techs handed her a tablet. She scrolled through info as she spoke. “Five vials lost for over a century. The Enclave tracked some of the owners, but the individuals that took it didn’t survive the process. The drug fell into folklore, something lost to history. Then, you. So evasive, you were thought to have been a mercenary, or a soldier, or a wily vault dweller, not some chemmed-out ghoul.”

“Yeah, I have an abuse problem. It’s been noted.”

Sharp eyes darted at her over edge of the tablet. “You impulsive fool,” Li snapped. “You destroyed centuries of progress for a jolly high. You injected concentrated FEV. It should have created a radiation-charged super soldier, not a half-stable ghoul teetering on a system shutdown.”

The whispers increased, shouting warnings and curses so loud John winced under the assault.

 _Shutdown._ He was losing a fight against his feral side. No news there. But there was also a not-quite-right feeling in his body, too. A strange longing pulled at him, the want for a type of freedom that had nothing to do with his current physical confines.

John blinked his eyes open, a cold tingle rushing along his spine. “Am I dying?” he asked Arcade. “In a timely manner, I mean?”

The white-haired man shuffled, fiddling with his glasses. “Well… of course. Your cells are attacking themselves. You’re a gambler, I take it, with caps and chems. Given your sordid backstory, it’s a wonder you’ve lasted this long.”

Huh. Well, it wasn’t a shock. John knew he was expired goods. He felt worse for Danse than himself. That was the shitty thing about death – leaving a bunch of people behind to deal with it.

Arcade returned his glasses to his face. “You know, that’s the thing about consumables – food, chems, even water – all just chemicals supposed to behave in predicable compatibility with human cells. Components break down over time, become subjected to foreign contaminates, react badly to certain DNA strains. Everyday items are poisonous to some individuals. What you took before – potent as it was – was simply a gateway drug.”

“It’s time to complete the process,” Li reverently whispered, handing the tablet back to the Enclave technician. “We’d hoped for a better candidate, but this will do.” She nodded to the techs. “Begin.”

One tapped a series of commands into the tablet while the other pushed a button in the wall near John’s tubular cell. The Hellfire units kept him in crosshairs. John’s chest restraint released and slithered back into the wall behind him. He hunched, clenching fists and steadying himself for whatever would come.

His hands felt strange – bony and lightweight. He jerked his head to take a quick look at himself. His rings and flag were missing. Fingers flew to his throat, feeling for Danse’s holotags. Gone. In a white tank, leather pants and high boots, stripped of his bandana, he was just a bald glower in a cage, no hints at who he’d been.

“Adding addition one,” said a tech, voice muffled by in-suit ventilation.

The device strapped to John’s arm gave a small click. He reached over to grasp it tight, prepped to yank it off.

“Unless you’d like to rip out a portion of your arm,” warned Li, “I’d stop that.”

John pulled his hand away as the familiar rush of Psycho filled his bloodstream. No. No. “No, no, no, no, no,” he muttered, trying to fight the rise of adrenaline flooding his senses. He braced palms against the forcefield, gritting his teeth, spine pressed up along the wall to his back. His vision tunneled, heartrate shooting through the roof.

“Adding addition two,” the tech announced. A second click from the device. The heat of a rad-laced serum lit John’s veins. Gasping, he bent as double as he could against the waist restraint. His insides burned, and pressure built behind his eyes.

He remembered this. Time hurled backwards, yanking him into a green-haloed hallucination. He found himself in the lowest level of the State House. An empty syringe fell from his smooth-skinned hand as the basement distorted, weaving with the flags of the forefathers and the pain of loss and humiliation. Gunshots. The crisp sound of a broken neck. _Of the people_ …

The Psycho knocked him back to the present. Hyperventilating, the urge to escape, to fight and tear his way free, shoved him into action. A rugged scream tore at his throat as he struggled under the strain, every muscle in his body on fire. His own body began emitting a light that filled the tube, blinding him, the whoosh of blood in his ears making him deaf. The outlines of the Enclave members watching him shimmered beyond the veil of green clouding his vision. Dr. Li observed with a cold sense of detachment, like watching a radroach writhe over fire. Fear rippled through the others – John could taste it in the air, a cloying sweetness on the back of his tongue. Arcade’s eyes were round and unblinking.

Switching tactics, John summoned strength from within. Balls of near-solid radiation manifested in his palms. He hurled them at the forcefield, trying to melt it, short it out, break it, anything. No success. 

He was running out of energy. _More. I need more._ He drew deeper, searching for a radiation source to pull from. Heightened senses skipped as far they could, slipping past the forcefield and into the corridor, but John felt a barrier. The entire strip was lined with lead, giving him no options. With a pop, the energy in John’s cell dissipated. He slumped, the Psycho fading, leaving him exhausted and dizzy.

“I want a full analysis of the episode on my desk in two hours,” Li’s voice floated past John’s stupor.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am,” the techs chorused.

She turned and the convoy moved out. Arcade lingered a moment, something apologetic in his expression before joining them. The door slid closed, locking him in with the other monsters once more.

His body too dry to manufacture tears, John settled for dry sobs. He hated his current self as badly as he’d hated John McDonough.


	13. Bringing About an End

Danse

Bunker Whiskey, MI

October 18th, 2288

On his knees and tied to a post in the mess tent, Danse was at the mercy of Brotherhood, a thought that made his skin crawl and enflamed the old feeling of blind betrayal in his chest. “Was it all a lie?” he asked, squirming to find a more comfortable position. “Am I being shipped to Maxson directly or do you plan to kill me here?”

It was early morning. Pink light flowed in from outside the tent flaps to give Royce’s scarred face a gentle glow. The man in the mask stood slightly behind her, lurking in shadow, silent and reeking of deadly efficiency, _Righteous Authority_ slung over a shoulder. Six armed soldiers flanked them. Out of armor, their expressions varied from concerned to nervous to anxiously awaiting the worst. All in all, no one seemed pleased to be here.

Royce edged forward and took a knee, staying just out of reach should Danse try something. “Danse, we’re not the villains. I promise you. But I need to ask you a question, just one, and I need you to be honest. I need your response as a Paladin, as a leader, and as man of honor. Can you do that?”

Danse’s answer was silence. She looked sincere enough, but she’d shaken trust, making him dubious. 

“Danse, please,” begged Royce, her shoulders slightly slumping. “One question.”

His dry throat gulped, and he gave a simple nod.

“Good. Good,” Royce repeated. “All right. Say you could stop an atrocity with a simple act and save an entire region, maybe the whole Wasteland… is a single life too steep a cost for victory?”

Danse didn’t have to think for long. His military training, or what the Institute had implanted in its place, gave him an immediate answer. He leaned his head back against the post and, knowing he was condemning himself, responded, “Of course not. That’s a soldiers’ duty.”

“Even if that life is John’s?”

Blood drained from Danse’s face, leaving him dizzy and confused. “John?... But… why would you –”

Royce turned her head. “Leave us,” she commanded her staff. The soldiers shared glances but complied. The masked man remained and took a single step towards Royce and Danse, his heavy duster barely rustling.

“I’m sorry, Danse,” said Royce, shifting to kneel across from him, “but we have to strike now. John’s our Trojan Horse. I need him scared and desperate. I need him powerful. And he doesn’t…” She pressed her lips together.

“Doesn’t what?” Danse urged.

“Have time.”

Frustration bubbled to the surface, and Danse shoved against his bonds. “What is God’s name are you on about?” he growled. 

The masked man moved like a ghost, circling Royce to stand over Danse. “He burns with invisible fire,” his deep voice rumbled, “a tool, a chance at bringing about an end. One tribe, outlived its purpose and decrees, can and should be terminated. No innocents, no bystanders, only those blind and fervent to their cause.”

“What tribe?” Danse looked to Royce. “The Enclave?”

“The last of them,” she confirmed. “They have a base nearby, constructed from the debris of our missing airships. My mission is to perform a surprise strike. No radioed plans to be intercepted, no formal soldiers being lost. Either I succeed or be written off as _lost in the field_.”

Her makeshift staff. No academy training, no holotags to messenger home. Just meat for the grinder should they fall in battle. Brilliant in a way, if sad. The empty chairs and vacant tables of the mess served to remind Danse of the heavy toll conflict took on Brotherhood forces. Knowing the Enclave, were a fully-trained platoon to be delivered, it would be a spectacle, and the Enclave would melt away into the abyss again, another decade or so before anyone could stop them.

“John is the perfect trick to kicking off pandemonium inside,” Royce explained. “It’s a miracle that you two found your way here at all. I’d be laughed out of my position if the Brotherhood knew I was pinning my hopes and dreams on a mostly-feral ghoul. We, the Brotherhood, can’t continue as we have. I have the show the Circle and the Elders that those in the Wastes have value. Rad-touched, synthetic, or Brahmin manure farmers, eventually, the Brotherhood would wipe them out. A genocide on the scale the world hasn’t seen in centuries. I need to make an example and prove that we can open our ranks and our minds.”

Royce reached out, as if to touch Danse’s shoulder before thinking better of it. She withdrew her hand. “I know this seems cruel and unfair,” she continued. “But science doesn’t care. Arcade knew what to look for. He’s going to combust, melt down like Chernobyl. He’s already a leaking reactor, dripping rads. I think you know this. Deep down, you know.”

John’s humiliation and guilt over Danse’s ongoing, low-level rad-poisoning had never been subtle. Despite tender caution, their touches left Danse constantly needing rad-meds and feeling the side effects of too much exposure. Yes, he knew, knew that every moment they had was borrowed.

 _Oh, God._ “I… I understand,” he murmured.

Treachery kicked Danse in the heart. How dare he agree. As long as Maxson reigned, the Wastes were in danger. Anyone that didn’t bend the knee to steel would be eliminated. A future where all peoples, creeds, and races could be equal and valued… John would want that. A fact that didn’t make Danse comfortable. He felt awful and callous, wanted to scream and shatter the world. Damn the Institute for implanting his training so deep he couldn’t counter logic, even when desperately longing to.

“I’m sorry the example has to be John,” consoled Royce.

“I know.” A lump wedged itself in Danse’s throat. He tried to gulp around it. _I can’t save him. I don’t have the power._ “How much… how much time does he have?” he asked.

“At best, a few days.”

Silence filled the tent. No one spoke or moved. Danse’s body felt heavy as if being pulled through the ground. A cool numbness settled in his limbs. Time had never been on their side. He and John were overdue for a catastrophe.

Royce got to her feet. “Ulysses, turn him loose.”

A hefty pause.

“Ulysses?”

The man in the duster blew a disapproving sigh through the filters of his mask. He flipped a switchblade out, sank to Danse’s level and began sawing though the bonds. “You place too much faith in what could be,” he grumbled as he cut.

“And you cling to blame from the past,” Royce snapped back.

Freed, Danse rose and tugged on the hem of his Minuteman jacket to straighten it. Though grim and reeling, appearance was something under his control. “What are we to do?” he asked Royce.

“Wait and watch. Remain at the ready should we have to intercede.”

Danse loathed sitting on the sidelines. “I hate that.”

“Yeah. Tell me about it.”

Ulysses keep a cool gaze on Danse, remaining motionless with _Righteous Authority_ still slung over his shoulder. Danse was hesitant to ask for it back. Instead, he queried, “How many members of the Enclave do you estimate?”

“Maybe a hundred, tops,” answered Royce. “Word reached Arcade that they were building a haven. He told a mutual friend who told me. And I told Ulysses.”

Danse didn’t bother hiding a frown. The dark man remained a quiet, imposing mystery. “Why?” he bluntly asked. Ulysses folded his arms in response, tilting his mask downwards in what had to be a scowl.

“We needed him to get this far east on foot,” explained Royce. “He’s a courier. Knows the trade routes, the people, and the languages. English isn’t Ulysses’ first language – or fifth – and we had lots of tribal land to cover.”

Danse recalled the initial impression he gave Sterling at the Cambridge Police Station and understood Ulysses’ stoic demeanor. A man focused on doing a job didn’t concern himself with social finesse. Newfound respect begrudgingly made its way through the tangle of Danse’s emotions. “So, you just decided to help the Brotherhood? To what benefit?”

The mask swung back and forth. “No love for the Brotherhood. Too scattered and unfocused, petulant adolescents playing with firepower. The same mistake humanity continues to repeat. But one must break the wheel in order to rebuild it.” Heavy boots barely scratching the earthen floor, he came to stand before Danse, putting them eye-to-eye. “Will the world be better? Perhaps. Perhaps not. Things will be different, though. No avoiding it. New faith. New trust. And new beginnings.” He slipped _Righteous Authority_ from his shoulder and offered it back to Danse.

Danse shot a glance at Royce, asking permission with his eyes. She nodded and he retrieved his laser rifle. He held it for a time, staring down at coils and smooth polymer casing. John was out there, and here Danse stood, agreeing to sacrifice him. John would kick him, say he was an idiot. That, _duh_ , of course John would walk knowingly into Hell, a cigarette in one hand and a gun in the other.

“Is there any way I could see him one last time?” he whispered.

Royce shifted, posture softening. A crease formed on her scarred forehead. “Danse…”

He nodded in gruff jerks. A long-shot fantasy at best. He stood like a statue, cradling his gun and continuing to swallow around that lump. A slideshow of the past played in his mind – their fights, John’s teasing, simple moments of stolen happiness, a score of slowly encroaching doom playing beneath it all. Good, Lord. When would his torment be done?

Royce broke the spell by stepping forward and putting a gentle hand on his arm. “You said you two were to be married?”

The rings in Danse’s jacket pocket were the heaviest pieces of metal on Earth. “Yes. He asked me years ago. I turned him down.” He was babbling, lost, unsure of where to place his next step. His sight remained focused on the gun for fear of breaking down.

“Why did you refuse?” asked Royce, her melodic voice keeping him grounded.

“I… I think I was afraid. I’d been fighting to keep balance in my life for so long. And John… that wasn’t enough for him. But the idea that people would know… that I’d lose everything I’d fought for… it terrified me. I took that fear out on him.”

He blinked damp eyes and tightened his grip around his gun so hard it almost shook. A sudden deep breath snapped him free. Releasing his death-grip on _Righteous Authority_ , he thumped a fist against his chest in salute. “I’ll wait with you,” he promised Royce. “If your plan fails, I'll be there to charge into battle.”

Her smile was tight and dire as she returned the gesture. “I’d expect no less, Paladin.” Ulysses joined her side, and they stepped towards the mess entry, lingering to look over at Danse.

Danse squared his shoulders. He would leave a heap of smoking bodies in retribution for John’s fate.

_But what about me? What do I do after?_

Danse grimaced at the thought. As he exited into the sunlight behind Royce and Ulysses, he put a hand in his jacket pocket and traced the rings he’d never use. 


	14. In the Tin Tomb

ARCADE

Atlantis

October 18th, 2288

Arcade put his weight behind pushing the draped, gurney-length device before him. The squeaking of the machine’s wheels sounded ominously loud within the cramped quarters of _Atlantis_ – how humble a name for an Enclave base – all sounds were amplified by tight corridors, creating an oppressive onslaught of noise. The base always creaked, a reminder of water pressure on the other side of aluminum walls. Leaks were common, and crews stayed busy keeping rust under control. During six years of operation, there had only been one flood and two deaths. Someone might say they were overdue for an incident. Someone like Arcade.

An Eyebot trailed behind him, spouting a droll list of pre-recorded safety reminders that amounted to little more than white noise. “ _Do Not Lean Objects Against the Outer Walls. Designated mess assignments should be strictly adhered to. Any violations of protocol should be reported immedia-_ ”

Chatter came from an upcoming junction. Arcade dropped his gaze pushing his load to one side of the hall, arranging the drape to hide the machine as a pair of maintenance techs rounded a corner. “Another leak on level three,” one griped to the other.

The second tech sighed. “Gotta transfer the pump. Soldering crew’ll hit that next.”

They passed without interaction, their footsteps fading. _Great,_ Arcade thought _. Perfect. A tin tomb waiting to flood._ The knowledge that he was underwater felt suffocating. He was a dry desert man and the humid, processed air pumped through Atlantis sometimes left him short of breath.

The Eyebot paused its announcements and gave a shudder followed by a series of rapid beeps.

“I don’t want to hear it,” Arcade hissed beneath his breath. “This is bad enough without you plucking at my nerves.”

Shivering again, the Eyebot restarted its recording, floating placidly over Arcade’s shoulder, keeping up with his pace. ED-E, disguised as Enclave Eyebot, remained poor yet assuring company, a reminder that Arcade wasn’t entirely alone. The bot had been integral to setting things in motion, providing a link between the base and Royce’s operation. _Atlantis’_ air ducts were wide things that snaked along the lake floor and exited into ports hidden by the beach’s gritty sand dunes. Not only did the conduits funnel clean air in and out but were useful for sending out recon drones, retrofitted propaganda bots useful for surveillance and deliveries. Not that other Enclave forces were nearby. Sure, some other group might be pocketed away, probably in the NCR region, but they were radio silent. The remnants here were on their own. 

Being a newcomer, much of the Enclave base felt foreign to Arcade, though the Enclave flags, laser security grids, and constant pomp of self-promotion was familiar. The Enclave never lacked for delusions of grandeur. The station was a claustrophobic construction of walls, piping and drains snaked along the ceiling, iron scaffolding and tilted lattice supports. Made of Brotherhood airship wreckage, things fit together as well as they could, a mismatch of salvage. The base was a maze of levels, narrow stairways, observation windows made from the tempered glass of downed vertibirds, cramped bunks and dark corners, centralized around a slow-moving elevator system.

Speaking of, at the end of the hall he pushed a button and the elevator doors parted. He wheeled the machine inside and paused, waiting for the Eyebot to join him. It hesitated and wobbled, a facsimile of shaking its head. _What an anxious piece of junk._ “Come on,” Arcade urged, snapping his fingers as if calling a dog. “In.”

After a pause, it floated in to join him and the elevator doors closed. Arcade punched the command for the science wing, and they were off. ED-E turned the recording off again, and they remained in silence as the freight sluggishly moved.

Arcade wouldn’t have known of _Atlantis_ if not for a few rusty connections to friends of his parents. Orion Moreno, who left New Vegas in a huff, eventually got word to Arcade, inviting him to align himself with the Enclave’s new foothold. Looked like the Gannon name still carried weight in certain circles. The old man had died by the time Arcade arrived at Atlantis, and he was grateful. One less person to disappoint by his eventual betrayal.

The pressure of the situation was intense. Arcade didn’t have much of a head for politics and subterfuge. Deflection he could do but lies didn’t naturally flow from his tongue. These types of things were left to cooler heads and masters of duplicity. People like Royce and Ulysses. Still, the task was his, and he had a duty to fulfill the final leg of his destiny.

Arcade didn’t believe in _evil_ , but heavy, philosophical internal debates gave him a clear sense of people who did good things versus people who crushed opposition beneath their heel. This was no kinder, gentler Enclave. Going to ground had made them desperate, a coyote caught in a trap, teeth bared and ready to spring.

The arrival of Dr. Madison Li cranked the flames under an already simmering pot. Starved for new ideas on how to strike at the Brotherhood of Steel and the fetid Wasteland that had refused the Enclave for generations, she was eagerly accepted and given free reign in using Institute expertise to plan the next phase of attack.

Her resourcefulness at flipping sides on a whim turned Arcade’s stomach. Still, the Enclave remained wary of newcomers, and she was under watch far more than Arcade. With all eyes busy, and as an heir to the Enclave, he got left alone. _Thanks for your service, Dad. Paid off eventually._

A thudding jolt from the elevator’s hydraulics snapped Arcade back to the present. The doors opened and he shoved the machine out into the hall of the science wing. A laser security net blocked entrance to the mutant ward. Arcade tapped a series of characters into a wall-mounted keypad and the menacing red grid switched to a light, welcoming blue. The door slid open and he wheeled the machine inside, ED-E keeping close over a shoulder. “Stay at the door,” he told the robot. ED-E gave a short fanfare and turned to watch the entrance.

In its too-small container against the wall, the deathclaw hunched and growled, the deep tone powerful enough to rattle bones. Super mutants cursed and made explicit threats, but all creatures knew well enough to not test the forcefields lest they coax a shock from personnel. _Thank goodness for small accomplishments_ , Arcade mulled _._ Without something to hunt, the ghouls were listless, barely shuffling in place. The Enclave’s crowning jewel stood at the end of the corridor.

“John?” said Arcade, parking the tarped machine and sliding past it to stand before the tube at the end. For the time being, no one would miss it except Li, who was busy flapping around hydroponics at the moment, squawking about the inefficiency of the Enclave’s methods. She wasn’t wrong. “Can you hear me?”

The man who’d been John McDonough glowed so brightly it nearly hurt to look at him. Despite being a cauldron of energy, he was fragile and slight, a vessel to small too hold this shining essence. Standing upright, restraints tight, John’s head lolled forward, eyes closed. The pump attached to his arm flowed additional radioisotopes into his system. Combined with a cocktail of specific chems, the mixture kept him docile but strong until full lucidity was required. He stirred, blinking glazed green eyes. “Fuck,” he groaned. “Arcade. Jesus.”

“Well, that’s one hell of a comparison,” Arcade scoffed. “How very blasphemous of you.”

“Bastard…” John gasped, gaze building a steady fire behind the forcefield. A weak thrash was all he could manage. “You’re at the… tip-top of my shitlist.”

“I can believe that,” Arcade muttered, pressing a button to the side of the containment tube. He needed to switch the chem drip in John’s arm, forcing clarity. A solution of dissolved Mentats would suffice. The forcefield canceled leaving John still bound to the wall.

With nothing but open air between them, John hacked a glob of spit that struck Arcade square in the cheek. It was if Arcade had been touched by fire. He shrieked and scrambled back as ED-E’s combat music blared into existence. Arcade cut the sound off by slicing his arm through the air before cupping his face. The saliva burned, the skin beneath bubbling. Arcade knew better than to rub it. Instead, he fumbled for the package of Rad-Away in his coat pocket – any Wastelander’s constant companion – and ripped the tubing out. Using the hem of his coat, he dabbed a bit of the viscous, incandescent orange substance onto the fabric and patted it onto his cheek. The effect was like applying straight ice to a burn – new pain made him jump and it would take a moment for the chem to neutralize the injury. “My condolences to your android, if this is what he had to deal with,” Arcade jeered through his teeth. “You would have killed him eventually. As you may have noticed, your body is a toxic playground.”

He brought eyes back to John who was shock-still, staring with his mouth parted. “Is this me,” John whispered, “or something you did?”

“At this point, who’s to say?” said Arcade, still holding the Rad-Away soaking cloth to his face. “You’re the one who chose to play with fire in the first place.”

John looked desolate, lost and confused by the understanding of what he’d become. Eyelids slid shut again and his head dipped in surrender. His voice came out as a croak. “I wanted to die. I didn’t want this.”

“Well, now you get both. Mazel Tov.” _Do I tell him, inform him of the ticking of the clock and the reaper at the door?_ Arcade swallowed. _No_ , he decided. He couldn’t risk John’s fire going out in defeat. Better not to mention John’s physical deterioration.

The deceit was a necessary cost. Nevertheless, Arcade couldn’t seem to remember when he’d felt worse. It was for the best, though. A layout of steps and precautions stretched before him, all in a specific sequence. But if the plan stood any chance of working, they would have to start now. “John, I have to change out your meds. Will you let me explain as I do so?”

A weak nod gave Arcade the courage to approach John’s cell once more. He produced a vial from his pants pocket and switched it with one of the one’s installed in the device on John’s arm. “I’m not hungry,” John muttered, watching Arcade with a distant expression. “It’s been… days? But I don’t feel… anything.”

Arcade never knew of a ghoul that starved – feral or otherwise. “It’s the radiation in the serum you’re absorbing,” he explained, finishing his work on the IV. “It’s feeding you, keeping you going. The reactor for the base is a level below. When needed, we can open lead-lined valves that filter into the other mutant cages, sustaining them.” He stepped back and gestured to the deathclaw. “Well, except Fluffy over there. It eats the dead mutants. C'est la vie.”

“I’m another pet,” observed John, gazing down the corridor as if bored. “You got enough already.”

“Wasn’t the plan,” said Arcade, cranking the machine up so that it tilted at a near ninety-degree angle. “The drug you took was meant to make a man a suicide soldier, or a portable reactor. Whichever was more useful. Obviously, something in the mix was wrong, or biodegraded over time.”

John’s laugh was dry and cruel. “So, the Enclave was on board with making one of their own an abomination. Left that one out of promotional materials.”

After a sigh, Arcade tapped thoughtfully against the machine’s side. “I’m not well-versed in Enclave lore or epoch-old battle plans, but I doubt it was meant for someone with a pure-blooded linage. Easier to con some Wasteland dirt farmer to do their bidding.”

“That what you want with me?” John asked with a sneer. “Use me a puppet?”

“ _They_ want to study what went wrong with the drug. To pick you apart during autopsy. What _I_ want, what those I _work with_ want, is to stop them.”

John’s eyes narrowed in apparent disbelief. “Bullshit.”

 _Well, at least he’s regaining lucidity._ Another sigh left Arcade. He leaned to flip a few switches on the machine. A low hum emitted from it as processors warmed. “Then bear with me – have you ever heard of the Sierra Madre?”

John gave a slight shrug within his bonds. “Gold and glamor and big, brass bands. Pirate treasure lost in the desert.”

“Yes… I suppose that’s accurate. It held something else, too. A catastrophic weather condition. The Cloud.” At John’s blank look, Arcade continued. “Due to the sheer size of local water bodies and the fact that they’re landlocked, the Lake Region creates its own weather. Prefect seeding ground for what a few plucky scientists pulled out of that desert.”

“What’ll that do?” John asked, bright eyes narrowing.

“Kill absolutely everything above ground for generations. And it will move, picked up by natural weather patterns, sweeping across the nation, maybe even the globe. Mankind can be efficiently devastating when it wants to be. Enclave motto 2288 – if you can’t beat ‘em, annihilate everything.”

“Oh,” John uttered in a slow, quiet tone.

“Indeed.” That old guilt weaved its way back into Arcade, latching tight to his stomach, making it lurch. Not one to apologize often, he blurted, “John, I am sorry, but I needed you. I needed the access. You were the key to my being accepted here, to be valued, trusted. And now we can end this.”

“Aren’t these your people?”

Arcade granted himself a self-deprecating chuckle. “There’s never been a squarer peg. My family is dead and old friends have the shelf life of vegetables – they rot when you don’t maintain them.” A more serious sense took root and he looked John in the eyes. “This is my choice. I’ve seen enough of the world to know when something is awful. Now is all there is. At this point, it’s not about wanting so much as willing. Will you help me?”

John didn’t immediately respond. “Why trust some freak you don’t even know?” he eventually asked, incredulous.

“Because if science can’t save humanity, maybe something wholly unnatural can. An intervention. The Brotherhood of Steel is just the Enclave with better P.R. The product’s the same. Anything done here, the Brotherhood won’t be far behind,” Arcade said with cold certainty. “Not in terms of technology or ideology. Their retaliation would be ruinous. We have to cut the roots out.”

John snorted in disgust. “Why is it so damn hard for people to stop being assholes to each other?”

“A deep, innate error in human judgement, I suppose. So, that leaves just you and me down here. Help me?”

It didn’t take long for John to answer. His green eyes glowed brighter as he said, “Sic Semper Tyrannis.”

Arcade smiled in relief. “Sic Semper Tyrannis,” he agreed. He swallowed and squared his shoulders. “There is a way out of this for you, John. I promise. Igne natura renovatur integra. _Through fire, nature is reborn whole._ But there is one more step.” Arcade positioned a finger over the emergency restraint release button in the wall. “Don’t run. Not yet. You won’t get far enough.”

They locked a steady gaze. Luminous eyes aflame with intensity, John jerked a nod. Arcade pushed the button and the three bonds securing John slid back into the wall. True to his word, John stood still. Arcade backed up and pulled the tarp from the upright machine.

“ _Holy fucking hell! Are you shitting me_?” John exploded, muscles contracting in shock.

His reaction wasn’t a surprise. Arcade had thought along the same lines when he first saw it. The machine looked like the world’s most horrific recliner. Made of a flat polymer base, a series of tall spinal prongs ridged the center, each point needle-fine at the tip. A complicated mess of condensed data-compressors made up the bottom, bright red wires and coils running along the underside like veins. This was one of Dr. Li’s projects, something called a Syphon, used to extract memories. The procedure, meant for the man who ran the Institute, was to be reserved for high-ranking members of Enclave personnel, imagining a future like President Eden or Eckhart, preserved for eternity. Arcade was quite certain the process didn’t work that way, but Li kept details close to her chest.

Arcade’s hands flew up in defense. “I know this look like a nightmare but it’s a precaution. It’s for your benefit. Yours and Danse’s. I need you to trust me.”

John shuffled and looked dubious. “Tell me you know what you’re doing.”

“Of course, I do.” He’d scoured over Li’s notes on the method and was mostly confident he knew how to use it. “Now take your shirt off and turn around.”

“Words no man is fond of hearing.”

“Depending.”

“Sure,” John conceded. “Depending.” He fidgeted. “You got a smoke on you?”

“I do not.”

John blew a breath out the corner of his mouth. “Ain’t that the way it goes…” he mused. He pulled his t-shirt up and off, turning to offer his bony back to Arcade.

Wheeling the machine just close enough, Arcade urged him to lean back towards the Syphon, and aligned the points to where they’d pierce fluorescent skin. “Um, I’d hold perfectly still if I were you,” Arcade warned. “It’s likely that is really going to hurt.”


	15. The McDonough Pamphlet

JOHN

Diamond City, MA

October 3rd, 2282

Gossip thrived in Diamond City. The people fed off it like they would radstag stew. Blame it on those in the Stands, the upper tier with nothing better to do than to pry into the private lives of others. Gearing up for next month’s election had only made matters worse, and the rumor mill was at full steam. Guy was careful – appearing in public with his clothes pressed, his smile fixed, each word placed as precisely as if it were surgery. The elite ate it up, and he was their darling, promising more restrictions and higher profit. Wiseman did the opposite – he was often found in the Dugout Inn, rubbing shoulders with the working folk, joining them in drinks and heated conversations about change. It was going to be a close race.

John stuck true to his word, playing the role of the good boy. Visits to Goodneighbor had ceased, and he largely stayed at home, inviting those close to him in rather than be seen out on the streets. He liked things comfortable and his brother held the family’s purse strings. The idea of becoming a beggar, of worse, some filthy brahmin driver, kept John in line. He kept his pain to himself, masking loss and a newfound sense of emptiness with a carefree veneer and plenty of substances.

He thought he’d been doing so well that the events of October third shattered him to pieces.

It was a late start in the day, sleeping in and lazily balancing a few books before the munchies that came with Jet drove John outside towards the bustling noodle stand. He hadn’t gone more than a few steps before an eerie silence fell over the marketplace. A moment later, whispers sprang up, clinging to the sidelines of the midday masses like dew. Bent over food stalls and beneath the eaves of vendors, their eyes darted in John’s direction and a few pointed him out to their fellows.

Initially, John blamed the Jet. A lingering paranoia, that’s what this was. His pace slowed and he shoved hands in his pockets, cautiously watching the crowd. Clutched in nearly every hand was a folded piece of newsprint. His stomach dropped and he grabbed one from a woman’s grasp, flipping the pamphlet open.

 _The McDonough Brothers: Keeping Hypocrisy in the Family_ , it read. _By Piper Wright._

Featured below the title was the print of a black and white photo. John recognized it as one of the snapshots taken the night he’d returned from Goodneighbor high as a kite but weighed down by guilt over his tryst with Eliza. In the image, he looked disheveled and deranged, raging at the Wright girl for accosting him, his eyes two coins of light reflecting the camera flash.

Dread mounting, he scanned a few paragraphs of the article.

_…the platform of ‘family values, and a safer tomorrow for mankind’ dissolves into hot air and pure lies. Guy McDonough’s been so busy gaining a stranglehold on the city, he couldn’t even be bothered to supervise his own chem-reliant brother._

_It’s no secret that John McDonough spent a good chunk of time on the road in the Capital Wasteland. How questionable was the company he kept? Sources say VERY. In the Wasteland shadows, John maintained a lengthy amorous connection to a ranking officer in the Brotherhood of Steel. You heard that right – the guys in the suits that shoot ghouls for fun and laid waste to the entire economic structure of the Capital region._

_Such activity flies in the face of the Ghoul Rights and Representation front John’s filled all our ears with. Why the pretense? Is it guilt? Misdirection? The fact that chem use is an overwhelming problem down in the Field? Whatever the case, John’s choices reek of a dangerous type of insincerity. The seduction of Mayor Robert’s daughter seems a well-timed distraction as we hurl towards the election. His close friendship with candidate Derek Wiseman also appears to be a ruse, as we must ask HOW ON EARTH COULD SOMEONE SIDE WITH THE BROTHERHOOD WHILE MAINTAINING ANY TYPE OF LEGIT RELATIONHIP WITH A GHOUL? The answer – no one can._ _John McDonough is a pit of lies and entrapment._

_So, where was Guy McDonough during all this? Did he know? Did he care? If the man can’t hold his own blood accountable, why in the world should we entrust our entire city to him?_

There was more to the piece, but John had read enough to rouse bile. Disgusted, he crumpled the article and tossed it. He was grateful for his loose hair, hiding the fact that his ears burned red in anger. Murmurs and prying eyes chased him as he marched out of the marketplace, head up, shoulders back, hands in his pockets. Though his insides trembled, there was no way he’d give anyone the satisfaction of seeing him vulnerable.

As election season heated up, Diamond City’s ghoul population had taken to congregating in the Dugout Inn, far below those in the Stands who had their hackles raised. Folks were armed on both sides, prepping for an incident. John burst though the entrance hard enough for the door to bounce off the wall and jiggle on its hinges. He walked into a haze of chatter, clicking glass and cigarette smoke. The place was packed, almost if he’d arrived in time to interrupt something.

It took a few moments for the noise to drop. Milky or midnight-black eyes landed on him, suspicion and outright loathing simmering within the orbs. John swallowed and elbowed his way through the crowd, on the lookout for a lacy dress and barrel curls.

Near the back of the bar, he found Eliza sitting alone at a table, nursing her standard electric blue cocktail of Quantum and vodka, a reminder of how insufferably infantile she was. His teeth ground together. He’d had enough of Eliza Roberts and her glib attitude towards men. They’d only had the one time and, yeah, it hadn’t been great, but she had no right to punish him. When she saw him, she held her tongue, innocently blinking. John pulled his hands from his pockets, emptying them of every cap he had on him. They clanked into a sizable pile, some rolling off the table and spilling onto the floor. “For services rendered,” he snarled as the Dugout Inn fell silent. “And a little extra to keep your whore mouth shut from now on.”

A hand landed on John’s shoulder and he whirled, ready to strike. The sight of Wiseman stilled him, filling his gut with guilt. John had dragged his friend into this mess, and at the worst of times. There weren’t enough _sorrys_ John could ever say.

“Don’t be upset with her,” said Wiseman, Kent and Parker Connelly standing behind him. He remained stoic, revealing, “I was the one that spoke with that plucky young reporter.”

The air went out of John’s remorse as an ice-cold stab of treachery pierced his chest. “You?” Wiseman. His closest friend. The guy he’d confided in. He knew about Danse, about Eliza, the time he’s spent in the Capital, everything. John felt untethered, as if gravity had failed and nothing was alright.

Wiseman moved to help Eliza out of her seat, but she pushed past him and went tearing for the door, leaving the caps behind. “Your brother was proving untouchable,” Wiseman confided to John. He gave a hapless shrug. “But there you were, spilling all your petty problems. We needed you to take one for the team.” 

“The team? Derek, you know I’ve always had your back!” John insisted, deceit an open, weeping wound.

“Gosh, you should have done all that, John,” said Kent, looking disappointed and nervous. “People are saying all kinds of things.”

“And the wrong idea could get people hurt,” Parker added. “Especially us ghouls.”

“Don’t be upset, John,” Wiseman said with sincerity. “None of this is about you. It’s only politics. You’ll bounce back.” Wiseman clapped him on the back, as if to say _good job, well played._

John responded by lurching forward and driving a fist into Wiseman’s cheekbone. The ghoul staggered back, hand cupping the injury. Parker Connelly stepped in front of Kent, spine curving, ready for a brawl. Wiseman heaved a sigh. “John,” he asked, “you sure about this?”

What was one more bar fight at the Dugout? John launched past Parker, grabbed on to Wiseman’s shirt with one hand and delivered another blow at the ghoul’s face. At second punch, Kent fled the scene, rushing for the exit. Parker got arms around John’s waist and tried to yank him back. John’s fingers wound tighter into fabric, keeping Wiseman within swinging distance. Some punches connected; most missed the mark. The crowd was shouting, and multiple glasses broke. A splash of liquor soaked the back of John’s shirt. Despite being taller and stronger, Wiseman didn’t return the assault. He ducked and twisted, John clinging to him while taking wild, outstretched swings as Parker tried to pry them apart.

Screaming incoherently, John was sure he looked like the feral threat those in the Stands worried over. But someone had to hurt. Someone on this whole damn planet deserved to hurt as much as he did.

Ambient shouting got louder and louder until something struck John hard in the knee, making him stagger.

“Alright, alright! Break it up!”

Two security officers in padded armor had appeared, one with the swatter that had drilled John, the other engaged in a hasty conversation with Kent Connelly. They separated John and Wiseman, though John made it difficult. Sweaty hair stuck to his neck as the bar filled with chatter from humans and ghouls alike.

“Can you believe that? John and Wiseman, of all people.”

“He’s the ghoul candidate! McDonough just attacked him!”

“The paper was right. What a liar.”

“Get this guy out of town! If Wiseman didn’t have my vote before, he sure does now.”

It sunk in that the article, the timing, the gaggle of ghoul witnesses down in the Dugout, were all staged. John was nothing more than a pawn knocked over. “You bastard,” he hissed as a woman dabbed water over blood droplets on Wiseman’s shirt. A corner of Wiseman’s mouth twitched, grim triumph in his midnight eyes. The ghoul placed a fresh, cold beer against his cheek as John was carted off by security.

Hours passed as John sat on a bench in Diamond City’s lock-up, staring at raw wounds on his hands. His knee hurt. The dark void cracked open by Danse’s departure got wider with each incident that came John’s way. A chasm spread before him and some perverse impulse made him want to leap into it. He hadn’t taken a deliberate step over open air, but he did hover by the precipice, just in case luck would give him a shove. Though maybe when – _if_ – he got home, he’d try drowning himself in alcohol.

A blustery outburst from the security entrance announced the arrival of Guy McDonough. Curt words snapped back and forth between him and ol’ Joshua Sullivan, Chief of Security. Their voices dropped to abrupt whispers as they ambled into the office and John got the impression the money was changing hands. Wouldn’t be out of character for his brother. John sighed and leaned his head against the wall, longing for a cigarette.

Guy, in his patched canvasing suit, marched to the holding cell. He snapped a copy of Piper Wright’s pamphlet open and pressed the page against the bars. “Are these lies?”

Seeing those printed words again caused a draining weight to drag at John. He canted his head back to stare at the cracked ceiling. “What does it fucking matter anymore?”

Guy ripped the paper down, steam practically shooting out his ears. “It damn well matters a lot, John!” he erupted, cheeks flushing tato-red. “I gave you free reign, no limit on our family account, a house in _my_ city and you repay me by make me look the fool!”

“It was Wiseman!” John divulged, sitting straight up. “He played us both!”

An ugly snarl contorted Guy’s face. “You’re the sloppy one, John, not me. If you’ve bankrupted my name, I swear –”

“What? Really?” John challenged, getting to his feet. He stared his brother down. “You gonna toss me out? Cut me off? Execute me for treason? Do it all. Do fucking all of it. I double, goddamn dare you.” His heartbeat thundered in his eardrums and, man, did me mean everything. What a blessing it would be to die. Silence and stillness called to him like a Siren. No more pain or thrashing wildly to fix himself. An end.

Something foreign and calculating swam behind Guy’s eyes. John had never seen anything like it. The effect was unsettling and sent a chill down John’s spine. “No…” Guy said slowly, as if drawing a conclusion. “Too much bad press already.” He tore the pamphlet in two and discarded the bits to the floor. “You’ll be staying out of sight until the election is over. House arrest. Diamond City security will ensure you stay out.”

Of course, they would. Folks would do anything for the promise of caps. Joshua Sullivan gave John a cool glower as he appeared and unlocked the cell. John was escorted back to his home as Guy drifted back to the Stands. No problem. John had plenty of alcohol, chems, and shame on hand to seal himself in with for the some time, and should he run short, Soloman’s medicinal stand was just a shout away.

Days later – or was it weeks? – a series of rapid knocks sounded off his front door. John cracked an eye open and rolled out of bed. A bottle underfoot nearly sent him tumbling down a short flight of wooden stairs. He stumbled and hopped, tugging a shirt over his head at the same time. The knocks didn’t cease. It was hard to tell where the pounding on the door stopped and the pounding in his head began. He ripped the door open, ignoring the guard stationed right outside. “What?” he growled.

Piper Wright stood on his doorstep, her face flushed and slightly out of breath. “Hey,” she said, as if they’d even been cordial. “You look like shit.” Her nose wrinkled. “Smell like it, too.”

“Leave me alone.” John entertained a brief fantasy of grabbing her scarf and strangling her with it. She’d carelessly cracked his secrets open like a can of cram dropped on pavement. Where the fuck was his knife?

“We’ve got a problem,” she announced.

“ _You’ve_ got a problem. Fuck off.” He went to shut the door, but she flung her arms out and barred it from closing.

He nearly kicked her in the face. “I have nothing left for you!” he shouted, trying to pull the door closed while she stood in the way. “I ain’t some tabloid tale! This is my life and you destroyed it!”

“Journalism is about keeping the people inform –”

“Oh, don’t give me that _for the people_ bullshit. You did this for caps, clear and simple.”

At the accusation, Piper’s expression turned dark. “The people deserve to know what an uncontrollable wreck you are,” she spat. “If you really wanted to help anyone, you’d be happy to make sure your brother doesn’t succeed.”

“Not like this. Not by ruining people.”

Her eyes narrowed to slits. “And you think fewer people will be ruined with him in office?”

That creeping sensation Guy had imposed on John in lock-up rolled through memory. It was hard to think of his stubborn brother as a dangerous man. Guy had never been violent, but if he wielded unchecked power… John wasn’t sure choices would be made for the good of all. He blew a gust of air. “What do you want?” he asked in a softer voice.

Piper ducked under his arm and slipped inside. John let the door close. There wasn’t much light on in his home. His home didn’t have any windows and simple lamp in the corner made it look like they were a secret society meeting in the dead of night. Piper folded her arms and frowned. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed, but Diamond City radio is being jammed.”

John’s radio had been off for days. He hadn’t been in the mood for the happy go-lucky tunes of yesteryear. “So?” An overflowing ashtray on a side table caught his eye, and he fumbled through his pockets looking for a cigarette.

“So, guess who’s jamming it.”

“Fuck if I kn-”

“It’s the Brotherhood.”

John didn’t move, didn’t breathe, didn’t think.

After a few moments, Piper’s expression changed, and she took a tentative step towards him. “John?” she asked with more concern than he’d ever heard from her.

He tried to answer, but all he could do was blink.

Piper pursed her lips before saying, “I don’t know how they got my article. Maybe it took a ride south on one of the caravans. Must be one hell of a radio tower to block us –”

 _Not if they’re bouncing it off the signal from Bravo_ , John thought, his mind coming back to him.

“– but all we’ve got is a loop of the same request in Morse Code. _The Brotherhood of Steel demands the identity of the officer_.”

“The officer?” John repeated, still fuzzy.

“The one mentioned in my article. The one you… the one you were with.” Piper grimaced and moved to put a hand on John’s shoulder before changing her mind. “John, you have to tell them. What if they send a unit to interrogate if we don’t respond? Having the Brotherhood in Commonwealth could lead to another Rivet City disaster. What if they take our reactor, too? We’ll have nothing. No more Diamond City. Everyone here will be sent out into the Wastes. We have to give an answer.”

For a moment, John considered telling the truth. What a perfect chance to out Danse and have his world burn down too. In that same moment, he realized he wouldn’t be able to live with himself if he did that. So, he drew up the only other name he knew.

“Cutler,” he whispered. “His name was Mike Cutler.”

Piper whipped a pad out of her pocket and jotted the name down. “Ok. Got it. Thanks.”

“Sure,” John said listlessly.

She made for the door, turning just before she opened it. “You probably just saved a bunch of people.”

John nodded at the floor. “Mm, hm.”

The door creaked open and closed. He was alone again. With heavy steps, he plodded back to his bed, kneeling underneath to retrieve his chem box. He needed to escape. A few needle pricks later, he was prone on the ground, wrapped in a gentle haze where nothing mattered.

Maybe it was later that night, maybe it was the next day, but when Piper returned, she found John sitting up against his bedroom wall, a Jet inhaler in his mouth and a bottle of moonshine by his knee. He was surprised to see her return, though if she was looking for a follow-up interview, he’d chuck the bottle at her.

She’d let herself in and had her hat in her hands. The oil lamp on the shelf above him gave her a soft glow. She stepped lightly and peered up at the bedroom level of the house. “Hey, um… I got the briefest of responses back from the Brotherhood. Just letting you know… your guy? Mike? They presumed he was dead. He was listed as Missing in Action. At least everyone knows he’s alive now. He just ran off with you. So, case closed.”

Twins trails of Jet fumes drifted out John’s nose to obscure his face. Behind the smoke, he frowned. _MIA, not KIA_? Danse had explicitly said that Cutler died by his own hand. Why would Danse have lied? Was it easier than the truth? Had everything he’d ever told John been a colossal lie?

_I love you, too._

Bullshit.

There were no honest people left on this goddamned Earth.

“Leave,” he snarled at Piper, reaching for the bottle. Instead of hurling it at her, he lifted it to his mouth.


	16. Breathe In

JOHN

Atlantis

October 19th, 2288

John reclined in a bathtub, naked, filled with a viscous, luminescent green gel that sloshed over the sides. The liquid was warm, body temperature. It was like being cradled in a womb. Darkness welled on all sides, the light from the tub’s contents the only source of illumination.

Despite the dimness, this locale was familiar. In the Old State House’s basement sat a jail cell where triggermen tossed the drunk and disorderly. A large, white bathtub occupied the cell instead of a bed. Easy for cleanup. This was also where they kept enemies of the town to bleed out away from the rest of the populace.

“Someone died here,” John said, faint memories tickling his mind. “No. Wait. That ain’t the right word…”

The pop and flicker of flame teased John’s right eye. He blinked and turned his head as the spicy scent of cigar smoke filled the space. The flame extinguished and next to the tub, atop a wooden barrel, sat Garrett, blowing huge puffs of smoke out of the gash in his face. “You sure you wanna be here, kid?” the short, bandy ghoul rasped, yellowed teeth flashing through the tear in his cheek.

John shrugged, making the liquid ripple. “I was made here. It’s just the end to a beginning.”

Flickering images of two selves taunted him. A fat syringe filled with a toxic, green substance sat in one hand. He swept the opposite palm over his scalp, blonde locks sliding through his fingers. In a blink, he was glowing and bald again and the syringe was absent. The hand trailed over his face, the smooth metal of his rings skating over the grooves on his cheeks. He coughed and spat a glob of ragged fluorescent flesh into the tub.

Following the exhilarating high that came with Cricket’s radioactive drug, John had fallen into a chem-coma in Goodneighbor’s basement. Unconscious for days, he’d woken up drenched in his own blood and vomit. Now, there was no escaping the realization of transformation. His ghoul body was purging non-essential tissue, leaving a sheer veil of skin clinging to bone and sinew. The liquid in the bath was his own glowing gore.

John blew a sigh. There was never enough time. “Had this big speech all planned,” he complained. “Now I’m not gonna get the chance.”

“The lives of idols don’t last long,” said Garrett, puffing on his cigar. “There are no such things as black or white, good or evil. There’s only incentive and those who get exactly what they deserve. Then it all goes red. Until it doesn’t. After that, who knows?”

Thought was fuzzy, and hard to grasp. Being back here was a hard kick in the pants. He’d left John McDonough to die in this room, but no matter what he did, his two halves could never distance themselves far enough. Still, John – McDonough, Hancock, whoever – had led a big life. Of all the things he felt, regret wasn’t one of them. “I never asked for another chance at anything,” he told Garrett. “Got no remorse. Everything that ever happened to me has led somewhere else. There’s been a point. There is a destination. And I ain’t scared of where I’m going.” The last few sentences had been garbled. John reached into his mouth and tugged loose teeth from his lower jaw. He dropped them into the radioactive slurry. _Plink. Plink._

“You sure you’re okay with the _not knowing_?” Garrett insisted, squinting his milky eyes in skepticism.

John leaned back, draping knobby elbows over the rim of the tub. “Gotta go headfirst to move forward. And, yeah. It’s okay.”

It was okay. John McDonough and John Hancock were done, retired, the heavy covers of their books closed. Giving MacCready Goodneighbor hadn’t been a hasty decision. John had been weighing options since his first feral incident. And what of the Constitution? Could Piper conclude the draft? Not really the style of her writing, and the document was likely to get shot full of lofty ideas and impractical policies. Yet even with those flaws, it’d be one hell of a start.

The last bit of unfinished business was Danse. Knowing his end was close, John had been preparing Danse for nearly a year. Danse would suffer, yeah, but wouldn’t be shocked. He’d gotten over the whole Cutler fiasco, he’d get over John, too. And honestly, their best moments had likely passed a decade earlier.

“You’re the king of lies,” Garrett stated with a gruff snort, and tapped his cigar out on the barrel’s head. “You know that, right?”

A heavy sensation settled in John’s rotting gut. To avoid argument, he sank lower in the goo. His discarded teeth floated on the surface. “Guess you just don’t understand yet – the way its gotta to end,” he grumbled. “Everyone’s watching, waiting for the show to start. But it’s too late in the act now. Curtain’s coming down.”

Garrett frowned, the light from John’s bath rippling along the hardened, torn flesh of his face. “John,” he said. He leaned closer, staring from two paces away. “John,” he repeated. “John.”

The Old State House basement bled away. John took a deep breath and opened his eyes, blinking as bright florescent light invaded his vision. Arcade stood before his cell with the rad burn healing on his cheek and a tablet in his hands, reciting his name. An eyebot hovered behind one shoulder. The thin veil of the tube’s forcefield separated them. That machine – the, what… Syphon was it? – was gone. He didn’t even remember getting back in the tube that held him. He felt a little tipsy, the world soft around the edges. Without the restraints to support him, he might have fell. Gaze drifting down the corridor, seeing the other creatures in their cages, gave way to a crushing sense of inevitability. “I’m never getting out of here, am I?” John asked, a quiver in his voice. He thought he’d be brave when the time came, but he guessed no one was ever truly ready.

“Aut cum scuto aut in scuto. _Either with shield or on shield_ ,” Arcade quoted, a pinched determination on his face. “Whatever you need to say, say it now,” he instructed, then nodded to the eyebot. “Start recording, little guy.” The round robot gave a whir and a click, the green light from John’s body surging and ebbing against its metal plating.

John was physically coming apart, radioactivity pumping into and out of him in jade pulses with each beat of his heart. He was volatile, physically and mentally. Overwhelmed by a laundry list of things left unfinished, his throat dried. He’d always assumed that when the time came, he’d meet his end with unbridled enthusiasm. Instead, white hot tears of radiation welled in John’s eyes as he started babbling into the eyebot’s microphone, droplets streaming down his face as he spoke until Arcade interrupted him. John ended the recording and walled emotion away. There was no more time for sentiment.

It was quiet for a brief time. The eyebot wobbled and nudged Arcade, emitting a series of mournful beeps. “Oh, go on, now. Enough out of you.” Arcade muttered, and he gave it a slap on the chassis. With a final bleep, the bot turned and floated to the doorway, signaled for the door to open and disappeared.

Arcade rolled his lips together. He looked paler than normal. “Are you ready?”

Wavering between intense worry and the thrill of possibility, John answered, “No. But, yeah.”

“Alright.” Arcade’s green eyes were steady and unblinking behind his glasses. “I’ve taken what precautions I could. Once I integrated into the Enclave, opportunities presented themselves. Royce’s faction knows something’s about to go down, but not the details. I believe in you – in the abilities you possess. You can bring this place to ruin.” He waved the tablet. “I’ve got base schematics for you, so you’re not blind. Easiest thing to do is puncture the walls. We are underwater, after all.”

“What about you?” John asked. “How are you getting out?”

“With luck, no one is getting out.” Arcade’s face was stern as he tapped at the tablet. He swept a finger from right to left and held it steady. A few holes, like air vents, opened along the corridor of forcefields, creating gaps in the iridescent bluish energy. A quick succession of warning beeps sounded from some speaker in the wall. The bands securing John slid away.

Though the stretch of open air, John became painfully aware of the other ghouls. He could see who they once were, shadowy green echoes of their old selves shimmering into view, dressed in petticoats or dress slacks, a dapper hat or two, overlapping with their ghoul silhouettes. Knowing it was time to go to work, John gulped and readied himself.

The weight of necessity threatened to bow John’s shoulders. Pressure made his brain stuffy, the unfiltered confidence he needed to control his powers beyond reach. In previous instances, he been partial to an event or extreme circumstance that bolstered his abilities. _What do I do?_ he wondered, teetering on desperation.

The ghouls shouted at him via telepathic waves. _Grow stronger!_ they urged. _Take what you need!_

 _How?_ he thought back at them, shifting on the balls of his feet.

 _We are invisible_. _We are the air, the soil, the groundwater. We are everywhere._

A frown twisted John’s mouth. _Invisi-?_

Radiation.

The world was spiked with unavoidable pockets and strands of rads everywhere. The world, yes… and those transformed by it. Fixating on the ghouls, he turned his palms out. Something within him connected with their essence, locking on to the energy that had kept them mobile for centuries. The sudden clench of his fists snapped that energy into a straight line. He yanked at it, stealing it as he drew their lifeforces into himself. In their own tubes, the ghouls jerked and spasmed, skin hollowing further, new tears ripping their ragged flesh to pieces. One by one they collapsed into burnt, dead husks with dull, dry bones exposed. Next, John turned attention to the centaur, robbing it too of its energy.

The glow from John’s body amplified. He gleamed through scarred skin and the brightness of his body made Arcade back up, finger holding the forcefield levels steady. His heart thumped so hard it hurt. He couldn’t breathe. Blood surged in his ears, creating a rushing sound. The whole scene seemed so far away, almost as if he were watching himself across time.His hands shook, his entire being held together by the thinnest threads. He felt ancient, as if he had already endured several lifetimes. For a moment, he considered letting himself go, to fade away into the air itself.

 _No_ , he argued. _I finish what I start._ He was going to leave his mark on history. Hell, maybe there’d be shanties and folklore about this day for centuries to come. Cryin’ shame that he wouldn’t be around to hear any of it.

John began to pull from the super mutants, weakening them, dropping them to their knees. The deathclaw hunkered in its cage by the door, perhaps sensing that its turn was inevitable.

The door.

The open door.

The open door framing two Enclave soldiers in power armor.

The alarm that sounded as the forcefields had lowered leapt to the forefront of John’s memory as a solitary plasma blast resounded through the room, shadowed by a stunned cry. The beam slammed into the forcefield encasing John. Blood droplets and green energy bounced off the barrier.

Something went wrong with the linear stream. Everything slowed down, clarifying as the universe held its collective breath. Arcade stood directly before John, frozen in place. A gaping black scorch mark sizzled at the front of his coat. His eyes rose to catch John’s. Something in them looked almost apologetic. Arcade promptly vomited bright red blood, the rush splattering over what remained of his crisp white lab coat. He raised wide eyes towards John again. “Go,” he choked, rubies dripping from his lips. The tablet clattered to the floor and shattered, followed an instant later by Arcade’s body.

With Arcade’s finger off the button, the forcefields dropped completely.

There stood an epic moment where John was fully exposed. Without Arcade’s guidance, he wasn’t sure what to do. He wasn’t alone, though. The ghouls’ residual shared consciousness was part of him. Holding his metaphorical hand, they urged him on, giving him council. He had two choices – fight the guards, who were now training their weapons on him, or fight the freed deathclaw whose muscles were rolling as it prepared to launch itself into the corridor. John chose a third option and let the energy he’d drawn rumble inside him.

Time regained its flow with the fury of a thunderclap. John hurled a beam of solid green energy at the deathclaw. It thrashed and roared under the radioactive assault, and the guards stumbled back in surprise. The deathclaw convulsed, bellowing in discomfort as its flesh became guant. Its skin split and hardened, a low pulse of green light emerging from the fissures. John dropped the sharing of power, and the beast shook its terrifyingly horned head. Now a ghoulified, glowing deathclaw, it lunged out of the open cage, slashing through Enclave power armor and crushing the guards with superpowered jaw strength. Its massive body blocked the entire mutant corridor.

“Run free, Fluffy,” said John. His voice contained several different octaves, ghosts of the ghouls he’d absorbed. The deathclaw’s colossal body slammed into the doorway as it tore out, fracturing the frame. John hurried out of the mutant lab and poked his head into the adjoining hall. Screams accompanied the deathclaw’s charge as it ran through the base, clearing a path in its wake. Groans from behind meant the super mutants would soon come to, adding their own level of destruction. A piercing alarm sounded, the base on full alert. Distraction secured, John went on his way.

Out in the hall, a sizzle of energy accompanied him. John felt he was in the center of an electrical storm. The air in the hallway shimmered and waved, courtesy of the ionization he emitted. Electric outlets and exposed wires sparked as he slowly moved along the deathclaw’s wake, stepping around bodies or ducking pipes torn free from the ceiling. Vapor wafted from a few of those pipes, and John sent searching tendrils – little flickers of green light – through them to gather and report, combing for some crack in the base and a way to gain even more strength. He needed to touch the earth, to feel the impact of radiation in the very soil, just like at the Slog where he’d worked in unison with the weather to garner power.

Within the labyrinth of Atlantis, a crush of animated voices floated down an adjacent hallway. _There_ , voices in John’s head hissed. _Let the outside in._ Though mystified by the command, John deviated from the deathclaw’s path and wandered until he reached a closed set of double doors. He triggered the doors to open and faced a long dorm lined with stacked beds and armory racks. Over a dozen men and woman were present, scrambling into power armor and arming themselves. Eyes landed on his glowing presence and all weapons swung his way.

_Well, shit._

A tremor ripped through him and he sent a green wave of irradiated energy slamming forward. The force knocked the soldiers back, some losing their balance, others toppling completely. John’s right hand clenched as if firing a gun, and every weapon in the space went off simultaneously. People leapt and swore, bullets and energy beams knocking holes in all directions, puncturing walls, furnishings and people. The soldiers in armor scrambled and refocused, sending a hail of plasma rounds John’s way. He snapped his hands up and halted the blasts midair, the green goo hovering for a spilt second before he slung it back at the shooters with supreme force, puncturing the metal armor and the flesh within.

In the chaos of injury and stunned surprise, John sent another wave of rads to wash over the dorm, a harsher one this time, actively killing the injured and sending those still functional on a slower path to mortality. They screamed as their skin liquified, clawing at oozing wounds as they fell. A few dying soldiers managed to get several shots off, two bullets and one laser beam hitting John in the chest and leg. The radiation burning inside of him worked in his favor, sealing his wounds almost instantly.

Almost. He felt a rise in the back of his throat and choked down the press of thick blood. Though the holes in his body had healed, he remained a mess inside, tissue wanting to come apart and dissolve into a radioactive puddle. He wasn’t going to get far if he kept losing rads by sending out shockwaves. He needed assistance. Whispers rode his subconscious, filling him with grisly ideas. His bright green eyes landed on the red-faced corpses of the soldiers before him. In his head, he held a quick debate with the rads in their bodies, gaining consent. The rads obeyed, and the bodies twitched as they reanimated in jerky motions. They stood as Enclave ghouls, armed, some in Hellfire armor, turning milky eyes to John for commands.

“You’re my warriors now,” he said with a smile. “Go clean house.” He pointed at a pair in Hellfire armor. “But, not you two. Stick around.” The rest of John’s macabre army marched out and spread, guns at the ready, venturing deeper into the base. Distant pops of gunfire and faint screaming echoed off the metal walls of Atlantis.

 _Is this what it’s like to be a god_ , he thought with wicked glee, _dealing life and death as I see fit? Pretty damn cool._ Did this make him evil, on par with the factions he’d detested all his life? A darkness had always resided in John. He took it with him wherever he went, its constant presence a comfort, knowing that if he lost all else, that bit of him remained. It had permeated his life, making what should be hard decisions easy, calling for _justice_ and _retribution_ instead of _mercy_ and _kindness_. He’d been a downright son-of-a-bitch at times. Ending this matter with overwhelming violence felt normal, appropriate even. Maybe he would have been a better man had circumstances been different. But things were as they were, and no point looking back now. Clock ticking down. He swallowed another gulp of blood.

One of the discharged bullets had knocked a neat, round hole in the base’s hull. A trickle of lake water seeped in, dribbling down the wall. John approached and trailed fingertips over the water droplets. He sent threads of energy though the water to the lake, through the lake to the earth below, through the earth to the rads embedded in the soil. Across that connection, he extended his strength, searching. He could sense the forest, the region, the world, the thin layer of radioactive destruction that clung to the surface like gauze to a wound.

John understood now, how feral ghouls could speak of being everywhere at once. There was no definitive separation between what was touched and controlled by radiation. Like engineers before the Great War had proposed, rads were simply an energy source. Only now, instead of cars and airplanes, it gave mobility to beings and creatures far beyond what nature had intended. The scope and scale of a universal bond to all things in existence was unprecedented and, to John, exceedingly overwhelming.

He knew that his body and mind were in shambles. The whole, wide world was calling, serenading him with the promise of everlasting existence and limitless reach. It wasn’t true. He recognized that. The world wasn’t for him personally – it wanted to leech into his essence and add it to the clouds of fallout coating the surface. Even with that knowledge, there was an underlying thrill that came part in parcel of being part of something grand and everlasting.

John choked again and finally understood Danse’s obsessive need to be involved with the Brotherhood, of the desire to have deeds resound through time, impacting generations down the line. John had been offered plenty of chances to make his mark before but had squandered every opportunity. _Later_ , _soon_ , and _don’t worry_ were poisonous words that cost him a legacy of his own.

In the dorm, he squared up, clenched his teeth until they cracked, and accepted his fate. _Almost done_ , he thought, a wave of relief threatening to bust free inside. _One last push._

He craned his head at the Hellfire ghouls and ordered, “Fire!” They raised heavy weaponry at the wall and opened fire. An onslaught of plasma and bullets tore through the siding. Irradiated water began pouring in. John stood under the deluge, letting it baptize him. He drew the energy in, reserves expanding like an overfilled balloon.

A tremendous sensation stole his breath away. He felt them, the Enclave ghouls, the people left alive in the base, even the deathclaw as it rampaged far away. Further still, Royce and her forces gathered, Danse among them. A pang of hurt shot through John, guilty that there would be no last words or final goodbye. The hurt shifted, edging into anger, into an ancient wrath shared by all feral ghouls. Tension built inside of John, simmering and frenzied. The energy within him condensed, forming a tight ball of concentrated radiation.

For a matter of seconds, everything was simple. An alarm still blared throughout Atlantis, a minor nuisance. The Hellfire ghouls stood still, weapons depleted. Water continued flowing in, the level lapping at John’s ankles. It was easy to imagine he was on the shores of Liberty Isle, pants rolled up to his knees, splashing through the surf with his big brother as his parents watched from the beach. The sun was bright, the salt air crisp, and time inconsequential. Life was easy and good, with everything as it should be. _You aren’t alone_ , the ghouls promised. _You’ll never be alone again._

A single, ruthless shockwave discharged from within John, flushing the base with irradiated green fire. It expanded outwards, knocking through walls, burning people alive, snuffing out his small army, leeching into the lake and making it boil. Agony consumed John’s senses, obliterating them. Through the haze, he swore he could hear someone screaming, someone with a raspy voice who sounded an awful lot like he did. Consciousness disintegrated as he fell to pieces, Lot’s wife blowing away as a pillar of salt. His body came apart, flaking into waterlogged motes of bright green as his being and soul dissolved.

All John saw was the glow.

Then black.

Then nothing.

.

.

.

… pure white surged into being. A stark abyss that stretched in all directions rushed to meet John. Drained, he panted, squinting. Though it was bright, the direction of a light source remained indistinct.

Someone greeted him in that vast, eternal plane – a tall man with sunglasses. “Wish I had a bigger parade for you,” said Deacon, a pearlescent gleam reflecting off his lenses. “But what can I do? Like the song says, _you can’t always get what you want_.”


	17. Breathe Out

DANSE

Bunker Whiskey, MI

October 19th, 2288

The night before a campaign was often more stressful than the actual event. Scouts stood watch at the tree line while Danse spent a standard sleepless night in one of the run-down motel rooms with three other soldiers, staring at the crumbling ceiling and dreading morning. His imagination ran rampant, forming contingencies and whimsical scenarios where everything would work out fine – after which he and John could finally go home.

The truth was that no one knew what John had become, all presumptions were soothsaying and theories. And John had proved so many people wrong already. Still, Danse’s hardened, military mind knew better. Hope was a hazardous, human attribute, and he’d have been better off had the Institute left it out of his programming.

The graying of dawn gave Danse the excuse to get up, arm himself, and seek out Royce. “Down by the water,” one of the grunts informed him, hoisting weaponry over a shoulder. Danse trudged the worn trail that wove between a mash of red maples and white cedars, burgeoning daylight tossing spears of weak light through the canopy. Several soldiers dotted the path, eager to move closer to the objective but mindful of too many bodies drawing attention. They shuffled in place, having a smoke or checking their guns. A few tossed Danse a salute as he passed.

The woodland thinned, exposing a wide expanse of twinkling lake. He found Royce in her black uniform, hurriedly talking with a cluster of soldiers, some in power armor, some without. Ulysses was nearby, hand on his assault rifle, his masked face scanning the scrabbly beachside tree line.

As the ground under Danse’s boots shifted from deadfall to sand, he squinted out at the lake. He cocked his head and blinked in confusion. The box of an elevator stuck up from the lake’s surface. Water still dribbled down the sides and over the open doors. If this led to the Enclave base below, someone had left in a hurry.

Danse turned. “Royce?” he called, taking a step in her direction.

A deep, metallic bang resonated from the elevator.

Ulysses whirled, rifle held steady. Armored units moved to stand in front of Royce. A second bang sounded. Soldiers shouted into coms, and those on the trail leading down from Bunker Whiskey charged onto the beach. More than a dozen guns aimed towards the open elevator, waiting.

At the vicious, squealing sound of tearing metal, all safeties clicked off. An earsplitting roar filled the air as the elevator box shook. A flare of green light preluded the deathclaw that ripped its way out of the lift system. It clawed free from the confines of the elevator, causing the metal frame to burst, peeling it open like mutfruit skin. The beast came down on all four legs, splashing the shallow lake water and shaking its glowing head. Catching sight of so many humans, it reared to its full, towering height. The jaw unhinged and a bellowing roar made its whole head vibrate, strings of spittle a vibrant, toxic shade of green.

No order needed, Royce’s forces unleashed a storm of gunfire. Danse too sent a full magazine of laser beams into the monster. The deathclaw thrashed under the barrage, each projectile ripping a hole in its flesh. Blinding beams of green light poured from the wounds. Its tail slapped the water, sending a tall wave rippling through the surf. The third roar was weak. The enormous, gleaming beast slumped in the water, the glow in its body fading into a stagnant, dull flush of jade.

Weapons wobbled but remained in firing position. “What the bloody fuck?” one of the soldiers muttered. Another crept forward to poke the muzzle of her rifle at the downed deathclaw.

Behind her own gun, Royce looked stunned and pale. Staring at the twisted wreckage of the elevator, she shook her head. “On alert,” she warned. “Something went very wrong down there.”

 _Wrong for them, good for us_ , thought Danse, battle adrenaline coursing through his system. An odd sensation made his skin prickle, akin to standing out in a thunderstorm. His keen eyes inspected the lake for additional signs of disorder as Brotherhood figures crowded the shoreline.

“Steady,” Royce cautioned. “Keep coms open. I want the scribes at Whiskey taking notes.” One of the armored soldiers began relaying the episode via headset.

A far-off sound, like distant, rolling thunder, shook the area. Dawn had fully broken, and the sky was clear. Eyes went back to the lake. A vivid green glow formed deep under the water. Moments later, the lake began to bubble. “Rad spike!” someone shouted. Those without power armor fell back, edging towards the tree line. The center of the lake swelled, rising as if shoved up from the inside. When the water fell, the force sent high waves tumbling up the silty beach to crash into root-strewn dunes, splashing power armor-clad legs. Less than a minute later, the underwater glow flickered and died.

The swell subsided, dragging water back to normal levels. Still slumped in the surf, the dull gleam of the deathclaw carcass faded, and pieces of scale and skin began to flake away. Flesh and bone dissolved entirely, riding a gentle breeze until no trace of its existence remained.

All was quiet again. Stunned, the soldiers looked at one another. The armored correspondent got back on their com, quickly replaying the event to Whiskey. Royce wove between her unit, taking stock and joining a scribe in scanning where the deathclaw had been.

Danse stood still, unsure of what he’d witnessed. His heart pounded in his chest as he stared out at the lake, waiting, wishing, wanting to be wrong. A series of rousing beeps caused him to shift attention. Ulysses stood near a cluster of lakeside trees with his weapon over a shoulder. A dented, weather-beaten eyebot hovered before him, chittering as it rubbed its hull against the flat of Ulysses’ open palm. Cautiously, Danse approached, _Righteous Authority_ still filling his hands. “Isn’t that thing Enclave?” he asked.

Ulysses gave him a half-glance. “Once. No longer.”

The eyebot tilted sharply and moved away from Ulysses, coming to stop before Danse. It quivered and bobbed, beeping in a slow, mournful way as if trying to communicate. Danse felt foolish staying, “I don’t understand,” as if the thing had any comprehension of human speech. It gently butted Danse in the side of the head. Something inside it clicked, and John’s voice came spilling out.

 _“Now? Okay.”_ A quick breath was followed by a slow release. _“Dan… I’m sorry. I want you to know that it’s gonna be alright. Had to be me. I can do this, was built for it. This is how we end it. This is how we win. I know I ain’t coming back from this, but I’m not gonna be pulled kicking and screaming into some void. I’m ready.”_ There was a shuddery gasp and Danse knew John had being crying while recording this. He could hear the tears in his voice. Danse gripped his rifle tighter, readying himself for impending bad news. _“Back then, I wanted to die in Goodneighbor. Everything I did turned out wrong. That’s why I did this to myself. I didn’t think… I knew I’d never see you again.”_ A pause and a gulp. _“I know you get what it’s like to find out your only purpose is to be a weapon. This is the last thing I can do for the Wasteland, for the nation, for all of it. I can die for it. I can make more of a difference in a couple of moments than I ever could in a hundred years. I’m just… hell, I’m sorry I have to leave you. But you’re gonna be okay. I need you to be okay. Tell my story, will ya?”_ An inaudible voice in the background interrupted, and John cursed. _“Already? Shit. I thought I had more time.”_

The click at the end of the recording sounded very final, like the last nail in a coffin being hammered home.

 _Righteous Authority_ tumbled from Danse’s numb hands. An ice block dropped into his stomach with unbelievable force, and a tight band around his chest threatened to crush his heart. Nausea crashed over him as tears burned at his eyes. He took hold of the eyebot and pressed his forehead to its rounded chassis, chasing the last connection he had to John. 

He struggled with the indecision to breathe. The world was cold and cruel. No amount of training or programming had prepared him for this kind of pain. The fabricated ache of losing Cutler, created to cause him maximum agony, held no comparison. He was ashamed of his reaction yet had no desire to convey strength. He desperately wanted to break, to let himself drown in denial. Danse didn’t know why he was so shaken. John’s death had been a year in the making, but the idea that he would never talk to John again, never be ribbed by him into a state of exasperation, never joke with until he cracked and laughed seemed implausible. 

A slim hand found his shoulder and squeezed it. “Danse…” Royce began, her lovely voice gentle.

His released the eyebot. “Don’t,” he snapped, the word more bitter then intended. “Please.” Anything to stave off reality for a short period of time. Discussing any of this would make it too real to bear. He closed his eyes and tilted his face upwards, sunlight warm in his hair. If he held still enough, perhaps time would stop or he’d fade into nothingness like the deathclaw.

Royce’s footsteps retreated and she spoke in hushed tones with Ulysses. “Paladin,” Royce tried again, “Ulysses is done here. He has a package to deliver to the Commonwealth. If you wish, he can take you home.”

 _Home_. There was no home left. Where did he belong if not by John’s side?

Danse shook himself and blinked. He was the General of the Minutemen and, in Royce’s eyes, still a paladin. There remained a score of people that needed him. It would certainly be a quiet ride back as Ulysses didn’t seem to care much for words. “Yes,” Danse agreed, speech thick in his throat. But where to go? Too many people at the Castle, too many immediate questions to answer. Diamond City was out of the equation as it was likely that the Brotherhood knew of his survival, given the way he’d gone about stealing a regulation vertibird from the occupied Fens. “There’s a small base in the north,  
he said. “Sanctuary Hills. Once in the area, I can give directions.”

A warm, empathetic smile bent the scars of Royce’s face. “We’ll meet again, Paladin. Once I’ve wrapped up here, there will be the matter of Maxson to attend to.”

Danse gave a vague nod. He knew this dance – attend to the bodies and onto the next mission. Except he had nothing to bury. His fingers found the rings in his pocket and sound drained away.

He stayed on the beach for a long time as Royce left to join her team in surveying the Enclave site. After a while, Ulysses tapped him on the back. It was time to go. Trauma deaf, Danse stooped to retrieve his laser rifle and followed the masked man up the woodland trail to Whiskey where a ‘bird waited on the packed earth tarmac. Ulysses took to the controls while Danse opted for a private seat in the galley. Surprisingly, the eyebot came too, hovering over the copilot’s chair.

In his bubble of shock, Danse was deaf to the thunderous roar of the vertibird as it took to the sky. He remained in that state until nightfall, when hunger and thirst drew him back into his body. Reaching for a field travel pack that hung above his head, he cracked a can of water open and drained the entire volume in one go. Tucking into a ration bar, the chewing motion of his jaw made his ears pop, and sound came flooding back.

It was loud in the galley, the drone of the propeller blades, the rumble from the motor, the air whooshing through the cabin all combining to a nearly overwhelming height. It was usual to wear headsets or armor in ‘birds, but Danse didn’t notice the discomfort or bother to reach for a pair. A steady procession of memories trolled through his mind – John toasting him in that smoky bar in Alexandria, glowing John, John as a commanding presence in his colonial regalia, bald John in the comfort of their home. So many versions of who they were and of all the chances they’d gotten. Danse’s brain settled on a particular memory – of a smooth skinned John looking down at him, a loose, blonde halo framing his lamplit smug face.

Fresh pain cut at Danse, slicing him open with a thousand blades. The first choking sob rose before he could stop it. All control fled and the dam broke. He lowered his face to his hands and began to cry hard, gasping and shaking, finally able to grieve. Choked by his own palpitating heart, Danse crumbled, wind whipping through his hair, the propellers drowning out his shameless weeping.

Ulysses stayed mute throughout the entire trip. The eyebot occasionally nudged the stoic man, at which Ulysses would bat it back toward the copilot’s seat where it would settle. Once over the Commonwealth, Danse forced himself to his feet, leaning between the chairs to give directions. Despite spending several days sleeping as much as he could, his body was exhausted.

The ‘bird touched down on the very seal that held Vault 111 underneath. Propellers slowed to a stop and Danse stepped out. Nothing had changed. Green hills rolled in gentle waves all the way to the development below. Afternoon sunlight glittered off the stream that ran in an arc around the back. How odd that some things remained constant while everything else fell apart.

Ulysses stood on a bluff of summer-burnt grass, placid eyes taking in the view. The circle of stars on the back of his worn duster served as a reminder of loss and rebirth, of things that would never be the same. The eyebot hovered nearby and beeped. There was a grinding sound from within the bot, and a moment later it spat out a holotape. A recording of John’s final message, little more than thin plastic and broken promises. It felt so light in Danse’s hand.

“His death was avoidable,” Danse growled. “A useless act.” The Brotherhood were cowards and fools for not entrusting Royce with better forces and full command over the situation. Danse made the conscious decision to hate them. The Brotherhood had stolen everything, ultimately doing him far more harm than the Institute ever had.

“The only useless acts are those where nothing is learned,” said Ulysses. With that, he climbed back aboard the ‘bird, eyebot in tow, and left, the craft going southeast until its dot in the sky disappeared.

The walk down to Sanctuary was peaceful. The bubbling of the brook, birdcalls, and buzz of insignificant insects were all earthy, serene sounds that let Danse remain in solace. If he had any luck left, Codsworth would be the only being in Sanctuary, giving him a few more days to himself before needing to explain what happened.

At the junction of the path and the main road, Danse paused, staring down the block at his blue house, refusing to move towards it. Any thought of moving back in flew straight out the window. The building was now haunted by loneliness and painful memories. Sterling’s pair of gold rings still rode in Danse’s pocket.

“Hey’a, General,” a drawling voice greeted. Caught off guard, Danse jumped. Across the street, Sturges was in the workshop. He hung a tool on the rack and wandered over. “It’s real good to see ya again. Folks were gettin’ a might worried with you up and gone,” he said, wiping his hands on his overalls. He kept looking over Danse’s shoulder as if expecting someone to appear. Expecting John. Danse wished he’d stop. “You... uh… all by your lonesome?”

Words stuck in Danse’s throat. Instead, he turned and ducked into Sterling’s old house. Dogmeat was in the kitchen, head on his paws. Ears pricking, he picked up his head and watched Danse with a curious expression. Restless and worried, Danse paced the hall. _What did I do?_ he tried to remember. _After Cutler, what did I do?_ He hadn’t done anything. Mike Cutler had never known him, the entire incident just implanted memories. This loss was foreign territory.

He found himself at the end of Sterling’s hallway, looking into a back bedroom. Blocks sat on a windowsill, spelling out SHAWN. They were dusty, but not yellowed with age. Sterling must have arranged them within the last few months. A crib with splintered wooden railing and peeling paint sat in a corner, the mobile above missing a few figurines. The room felt hallowed, a shrine to Sterling’s lost child. A place for mourning.

Danse stepped inside and took a seat in an old chair that bowed lightly under his bulk. Dogmeat wandered in and laid on his feet. Danse spent some time there, abstractly thinking about the loss of family and future.

Dusk shadows were murky by the time someone else entered the house. Dogmeat perked up. “Danse?” someone called from the entry. Sterling, a man who could be his twin in most aspects, emerged from the hall. He was out of armor but dressed in his offensive, orange Brotherhood jumpsuit. Danse loathed the sight of it and Sterling’s involvement with the faction. “Sturges shot me a line on my Pip-Boy,” Sterling explained. “I was at the airport. Sorry it took a while. Are… are you okay?”

Muscles twitched in Danse’s jaw as he failed to find words. He fingers dug into his knees. Sterling stood before him and placed tentative hands on Danse’s shoulders, giving a mild squeeze.

“He’s gone,” said Danse.

Two words, too simple to say.

A rushing buzz filled his ears, the sound of his own blood surging. He trembled once, twice, before tilting listlessly into his friend’s embrace. Danse gritted his teeth into a painful grimace and closed his eyes, setting his head against Sterling’s stomach. “How am I supposed to do this?” he sobbed as tears spilled in hot streaks. “How did _you_ do this? I’m not even alive and it hurts to breathe.”

“Danse… you know you’re alive. And, yes, it hurts. It never really stops hurting.” Sterling took a breath and lowered to his knees so they were face to face. “I’m so sorry. I don’t want anyone to go through this.”

“I’m alone,” Danse whispered, misery winding tight tendrils around his heart.

“You have more friends than you realize. People who care about you. People who love you. People that just want you be alright.” Sterling borrowed a moment before continuing. “I want to lie to you, to tell you you’ll be fine in week or a month, but I know how you despise dishonesty. I can only assure you, with absolute certainly, that you will _not_ be alone. And John… jeez… proud, brash John would be wrecked if you thought you couldn’t pull through.”

Dogmeat wiggled between the two men to put his head in Danse’s lap. Danse rubbed a hand along the dog’s snout and over his soft fur. “I won’t go back to the Brotherhood until you tell me to,” Sterling promised. “ _Family emergency_. We’ll be in this together.”


	18. The Post

PIPER

Goodneighbor, MA

October 22nd, 2288

“Well?” Piper asked, practically wiggling in her seat, her smoke having burned down to the filter as she waited. “What do you think?”

“It’s… uh... lengthy,” MacCready commented, squinting at her newest article. He sat across from her on the couch in the Old State House meeting room, his good leg up on the coffee table. The residual limb had the excess cloth pinned back and was stretched out on the cushions. He folded the paper and set it aside. “Guess I’m the best mayor in these parts now,” he said with a smirk, lacing fingers over his chest as he leaned back.

“Nice phrasing, cowboy,” Piper teased, stamping her cigarette into a tray on the table. “Don’t let the lack of competition go to your head.”

Truth was, MacCready had been doing an incredible job in Goodneighbor. The New Boston Orphanage now occupied what used to be the Rexford. Gangs were out of the warehouses and the units had been rebuilt as apartments. A farmer’s market filled the front square, a place where local homesteads could pander their wares. Triggerman numbers were down, the manpower redirected at restoration. The Minutemen served as local law enforcement and had found a ghoul doctor out in the wilds near ArcJet. She’d set up a clinic inside the Memory Lounge, working alongside Dr. Amari. MacCready hadn’t dared mess with the Third Rail, but he’d placed a few ghoul prostitutes near the front gate as a deterrent to Brotherhood patrols occupying the Financial Ruins. They had a grand time taunting soldiers that dared poke too close Goodneighbor, especially since the mayor’s office was paying their wages.

The soldiers didn’t dare retaliate – with the loss of McDonough, MacCready was highest ranking official in the Commonwealth. A move against Goodneighbor would be an open act of war, and staying ahead of big, fucking trouble between the Minutemen and the Brotherhood of Steel was the current priority of the whole region.

While Piper hung out in Goodneighbor, escaping municipal strife, Geneva was busy dealing with repercussions of the McDonough synth’s actions. All of Piper’s articles featuring her suspicions over Guy McDonough had gone into republication. Initial copies had scarcely sold, but the new prints flew off the press, even eclipsing her smear piece on John all those years back. The story was out. Everybody had known about synths long enough to brace themselves that eventually someone was going to be outed.

It wasn’t exactly glee Piper felt, but she carried a satisfied confidence with her, knowing that she been right the whole time. The latest chapter of Diamond City’s history had ended with a bang. Two bangs according to Piper’s new article. Now the city council would take over. People wouldn’t be ready for another mayoral election any time soon. For the time being, Piper’s sister was safe in the city. But Nat was a teenager now, and eager to join the Minutemen when she was old enough. When that day came, well… Blue’d been quite adamant about never marrying again, which suited Piper just fine. She’d go wherever her life led.

“So,” said Piper, eyeing the paraphernalia strewn about the coffee table. Did she want another cigarette or the last, fat cigar in its box to celebrate her success? Little had changed in the office since the Hancock era. Windows were still boarded up as a precaution against snipers. MacCready still hosted an assortment of unsavory types, so the available alcohol and chems made sense. “Marowski’s really gone. Did you kill him?”

“Nope,” MacCready stanchly affirmed.

She quirked a brow and reached for the cigar. Was there a story here? Something being covered up or misdirected. “Did you get someone to kill him?”

MacCready rolled one shoulder in a shrug as she snipped the end of the cig with a knife. “I needed the space,” he answered, dodging the question. “He’d been in power too long. Too many of his goons had families. I made them a better offer. They handled it for me.”

Piper hummed in agreement as she puffed her cigar, a little let down that there wasn’t some big plot to unearth. She wasn’t a Goodneighbor expert, but her ears were always wide open. MacCready wasn’t much of an enforcer. John’s occasional aggressive tactics had carried vague memories of Vic’s supremacy over Goodneighbor, keeping the threat of retaliation very present. 

“Boss,” Fahrenheit interrupted, poking into the office. Her expression was flat, her eyes cold. “We got a package,” she said, all business. “Seems benign,” she added, as suspicious parcels showing up in Goodneighbor could mean anything.

A little, sandy-haired boy wove between Fahrenheit’s legs. His clothes were a tad large on his small frame. “Daddy! It’s a ball!” shouted Duncan, bouncing with excitement. 

“Weird,” MacCready muttered, reaching for a beer on the table. “Stuff from a new family maybe. You enjoy it, Dunc!” he offered.

Duncan cheered, his feet pounding the State House floor as he ran off to claim his toy. Fahr rolled her eyes and left the doorway.

“What crawled up her ass?” Piper asked. MacCready stalled, trying to open the beer bottle with his teeth until Piper stopped him. She cracked it open on the lip of the coffee table and handed it back.

“The gangsters are pissed about my leadership,” MacCready said before taking a sip. “Well, the Underground can enjoy a heaping helping of _Too Bad_. Times are changing. Get with it or get out.”

Piper frowned a bit, puffing her cigar. Boston had a long history of organized crime. MacCready had a tough hill to climb, even with the Minutemen’s help, if he planned on crushing it. “You want the whole Commonwealth to go straight?” she asked, incredulous.

MacCready took another swig. “Not _straight_ , exactly. _Curved_ , more like. I dunno. Kinda making this up as I go. With Marowski out of the picture, a lot of changes are going down in back alleys. I’ll have to see where that all lands.”

Piper cracked a grin. In some ways, MacCready was still a gambler. Not that he’d ever been reckless but having Duncan around had steadied the young man. He was focused and thoughtful, a surprising breath of fresh air and insight that the Commonwealth needed. “Proud of you, McCrutchy,” she teased with a wink.

“Oh, fuck you.” He laughed and drained his beer. It had been her wayward shot that cost him his leg, but they’d fallen into a type of familial banter about it. There was no fixing it, no taking the incident back, so they’d chosen to get over it instead. “Speaking of…” he held out his hands and made _give me_ motions with his fingers. “It’s about time to do my rounds – market check, handshaking, baby kissing, you know, the expected stuff.”

A pair of crutches leaned against his couch. Piper got rid of her cigar – heck, it was almost done, anyway – and stood to help. She slid the crutches nearer and gave MacCready a hand getting up.

He’d taken less then three assisted steps when a metal ball bowled through the office doorway at full speed. “Daddy! Daddy! Look!” squealed Duncan.

The orb collided with one of MacCready’s crutches and sent him to the ground. “Ah, jeez, Duncan!” he yelled, wincing on the floor.

Duncan froze in the doorway, his round face stricken. “I’m sorry,” he whispered, a guilty flush reddening his cheeks. Piper kneeled to help MacCready up.

A randomized beeping, not unlike Morse Code, emitted from the ball. Piper and MacCready stared at it as it shook and propelled upwards into a hover. “That’s not a ball,” Piper noted. The thing was an eyebot, and an eyebot that looked beat to shit, at that. MacCready urged Duncan behind him.

The bot gave another series of beeps. A hatch in its back popped open and it belched out items. A mess of fabric dumped out and a cluster of rings went cascading across the floor, each spinning until it came to a stop. An envelope and three drives dropped in a pile atop the fabric. Square, thinner than holotapes, each drive was the size of Piper’s palm. She stepped forward and plucked at the fabric. A familiar, ratty Old World flag unfurled as she lifted it. Something slipped from the folds of the flag and hit the floor with a clink. Piper bent to pick it up. Holotags.

“Oh, no,” she uttered and took a heavy seat back on the couch, bunching the flag in her lap. It had been no secret that John wore Danse’s old Brotherhood tags around his neck. Was John dead? Were both he _and_ Danse dead? They’d both pulled a fast escape from Diamond City. Though making a dramatic exit wasn’t outside of John’s wheelhouse, Danse normally had more sense.

As Piper tried to gather her wits, MacCready hobbled over. “There’s a note,” he reminded her. Piper leapt from the couch to grab it and sat again. MacCready read over her shoulder.

Scribbled in neat cursive, the label read, _To Dr. Amari of Goodneighbor. Urgent._ The first of two pages mentioned the Enclave, the Brotherhood and John – by both his names. It told of an inevitable event and what the outcome was likely to be. The second page was just for Amari, full of technical jargon and instructions. “Oh my, God,” Piper breathed, attempting to imagine the magnitude of what this meant.

There was a signature of the end of the note. MacCready snorted as he read it. “What kinda bullshit, made-up name is _Arcade_?” he scoffed.

“Daddy, you gotta put a cap in the jar,” Duncan said, still rooted to a corner of the room.

MacCready spun around. “Go,” he told Duncan. “Get Fahr.” The little boy scooted out of the room and pounded down the stairs.

Piper gulped down shock and got to work. She pocketed the tags then gently folded the flag and placed it on the coffee table. Taking the empty cigar box, she filled it with the rings and carefully added the drives.

Hurried bootsteps plodded up the stairs. “Boss, what happened?” Fahrenheit asked before she even got through the door.

“Here,” MacCready said, taking the cigar box from Piper. He added the note to its contents and closed the lid. “Take this directly to Amari. Don’t even talk to Irma.” Fahrenheit nodded as she took the box. She spun on one heel and left. Despite her sullen disposition, MacCready obviously trusted her.

“What about this thing?” Piper asked, jabbing a thumb at the eyebot where it hovered patiently.

MacCready made a face. “I guess I’ll get Charlie from the Rail to come up. Maybe he can talk to it, robot to robot. Figure out where in the high heck it came from.”

“Good.” Piper tugged the collar of her coat up and headed out the door.

“Wait, wait!” MacCready called, stopping her on the stairs. “Where are you going?”

“We know a guy who’s pretty much the only detective we’ve got,” she answered. “Have Kent send a message to Nate. Say I’ll meet him in Sanctuary.” 

She made for Sanctuary immediately, passing both Minutemen roadblocks and Brotherhood patrols. At her press pass, the patrols waved her by, relieving her of interrogation or harassment. Thank God her best friend and bedfellow put that small courtesy in place. Poor Blue was practically a circus-grade juggler, balancing his life in the Commonwealth and his duties with the Brotherhood.

It was teetering on dusk when she finally crossed the Old North Bridge, and a familiar form darted down the street to greet her. Dogmeat was so enthusiastic, he nearly bowled her over. After leaving a trail of slobber all over her chin, he ran circles around her as she walked, searching. She caught Jun Long in the field and he gestured to the workshop. There, she found Sturges and Nate, both looking worn as they poured over a blueprint. Nate was back in his vault suit. Good. That meant he was here to stay for a while. Edging closer, Piper saw that the diagram on the blueprint was the same as the artillery at the Castle. Were things getting so bad that they needed that kind of firepower in Sanctuary?

“Hey, Blue,” she softly called. “Long time, no see.”

Nate twisted around, his dark eyes serious and troubled. “Piper.” He stepped away and swept her into a hug that lifted her off the ground. Dogmeat barked in excitement.

“Oof,” she grunted. “Not that I don’t appreciate… the gesture, but… you’re crushing me,” she croaked.

His hold relaxed and she slid back to the ground. “I heard you were coming,” said Nate, “but didn’t know why. Seemed like it was urgent.”

“I was with Mac in Goodneighbor when we got this letter,” she explained, trying to keep a calm façade. “I think something bad happened. I’m worried about Danse. I don’t know –”

“He’s here.”

“ _What_?”

“Danse is here.”

A long sigh of relief passed Piper’s lips. Danse was safe. “I’m not gonna ask, cause I already know,” she blurted. “John’s dead. But there’s way more to that. Where’s Danse?”

Nate took her hand. “Come with me.” He motioned for Dogmeat to stay with Sturges and led her down the street, over a lawn and towards the river. The water shone pink, reflecting the fading sun as indigo tones claimed the eastern sky. Two people sat on the crumbling stone barricade between the settlement and the water. The breadth of the man’s shoulders announced that was Danse, the other figure a woman Piper didn’t recognize. Nate brought Piper closer. “Danse?” he asked in a low, soothing tone. “You have another visitor.”

Danse didn’t move, just stayed slumped on the wall. The woman’s strawberry blonde hair rippled as she turned. “Oh, Ms. Wright. Hello,” she greeted. Her mouth pulled up, but her eyes remained somber. She had one of Danse’s hands clasped in her lap.

It took Piper a moment to realize that the woman was Haylen, out of uniform. It must have been months since she’d had made an appearance in Sanctuary. “Uh, hey,” Piper hailed in return. “I guess everybody’s showing up.”

Danse faced Piper and she immediately wanted to swallow her foot. His eyes were red and swollen. He looked old and tired, a lost expression plastered to his face. Nate squeezed her hand in reprimand. Well, what the hell else was she supposed to say? _Sorry for your loss. He’s in a better place. Sending thoughts and prayers._ They all seemed hollow, cheap responses. Especially since Piper knew more than them. This story wasn’t done yet.

Piper held out her free hand. Danse’s holotags slipped through her fingers to tangle from her fist. “Hold on to your butts,” she told them. “You won’t believe what came in the post.”

**Author's Note:**

> Forever grateful to fangirlanonymous for her patience, insight, and fearless second-guessing of my ideas that make this a better story.


End file.
